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Kiia  Wheeler’s  Appearance. 

New  York  correspondent  of  The 
isville  Courier- Journal  thus  describes 
personal  appearance  of  Ella  Wheeler, 


andfthe  description  will  prove  interesting 
to  tir  many  friends  in  this  city: 

* ^eard  8ome  of  Ella  Whee  er’g  most  de- 
1?.  Aad?llr  8uy  sile  was  not  handsome,  and 
attej|  seeing  her,  I wondered  how  any  one  could 
aesgttbe  her  as  less  than  beautiful.  Fairly  tall, 
with  an  almost  perfect  figure,  a lace  whose  every 
mature  is  fine  and  strong  and  symmetrical,  a 

have  been  softened  to 

beautiful  mouth,  £— c„  „1U1UDI(  tulIu.11Ke  in 

pupjd’sbow;  tawny  eyes  set 
in  a little  slanting,  like  those  of  thAt.PMiAM 

£ v o-"*  ui  uci  iucuub  ar 

therro;  and  abundant  hair,  dark  in  the 
light*  d by  dark-red  spots  in  the  sun 


any  one  could 

. - ij  . - — ~ — >***  u«uumul.  Fairly  tall, 

with  an  almost  perfect  figure,  a lace  whose  every 
feature  is  fine  and  strong  and  symmetrical,  a 
Kle,!!v?„0„rce  complexion,  whose  high  tints 
— .j  a deiicate  coloring,  a rarely 
sweet  and  almost  child-like  in 

in  a'littje  «lauUBg,'ii^e*tiio'se"of"iie  tearless'lMon- 
go  s (old  gold  eyes  one  of  her  friends  always  calls 
SSJJH  ^nd  abundant  hair,  dark  in  the  shade  and 
light*  d by  dark-red  spots  in  the  sun-wiih  these 
personal  charms  how  could  she  be  less  than  beau- 
{. Imy  £nd  to  this  assortment  a pair  of  shaoelv 
hands,  finely  fibered,  and  with  a physiognomy  as  I 
tl81'*®  a8  E4any  laces ; a fresh,  sweet  voice,] 
w th  The  ring  of  youth  and  the  notes  of  joy  in  it 
and  you  haye  the  personal  iy  of  one  of  our  most  I 

th^?hLW5men-  18  Dearer  brunette  I 

th® 1 short  or  inclined  to  be  short  I 
SKS8,.&£t S.r"rlteLa  1 »ut  the  chin,  which 


r « *»caiss  ner  nair  in  a knot 
inTrom  heAUCk  ?l  her  ,head>  with  straight  bangs 

ius^D^^c^  ^“®^t®r  Sading'her  nfarveh 

the  deeTrythVo/'aUHfe116  Wi6d°m  of  ^ 


WB 

EAL  ESTATE  B! 

If  you  wish  to  BUY,  SELL  or  EX c: 
rm,  who  have  lived  in  Madison  since  1868, 
ut  a wide  extent  of  country.  They  are  del 

■“ft?  T?Te‘  T*eir,llpt  0{  real  eatK  is * 

Ji  this  State,  mostly  in  Dane  County:  also 
tocks  of  Merchandise.  They  are  also  age 
re  offering  several  millfon  acres  of  K 

HOIOE  LANDS  IK 

At  from  ONE  to  FIVE  D< 

hie  ago , Burlington  i 

Who  have  about  600,000  Acres  left , and 
Acres  in  Iowa  and  Minntsola.  Th< 
what 

n the  Best  Terms : 

SPECIAL  INI) 

aae  County  Far 

G2T* Abstracts  of  Titles  fumis 


SHELLS. 


f 

BY 


WJZ 

Author  of  “ Drops  of  Water”  and  other  Poems. 


MILWAUKEE: 

HAUSER  & STOREY. 
1873. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1873  by 
ELLA  WHEELER, 


In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


til 

VOl'h 


n 

t*" 


v- 

4 

>e> 


vfi 

i 

k> 


DEDICATION. 

TO  THE 

PEOPLE  OF  WISCONSIN, 

FROM  WHOM  I HAVE 

Received  so  Many  Words  of  Praise  and  Encouragement; 
to  WHOM  I AM 

Indebted  for  so  Many  Marks  of  Appreciation, 

Rendering  my  Pleasant  Work 

Pleasanter, 

My  Glad  Life  Gladder, 

Is  this  volume  gratefully  dedicated 

BY 

THE  AUTHOR. 


gS 


vb 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2017  with  funding  from 

University  of  Illinois  Urbana-Champaign  Alternates 


https://archive.org/details/shelis00wilc_0 


By  the  waves  of  thought,  these  “ Shells’’  were  washed  out  upon 
the  shores  of  imagination,  and  I gathered  them  in  idle  moments. 
If  they  shall  give  you  a few  hours  enjoyment,  it  will  add  to  the  pleas- 
ure I experienced  in  making  the  collection. 


ELLA  WHEELER, 


SHELLS. 


OUR  LIVES. 

Our  lives  are  songs.  God  writes  the  words, 
And  we  set  them  to  music  at  pleasure ; 

And  the  song  grows  glad,  or  sweet,  or  sad, 

As  we  choose  to  fashion  the  measure. 

We  must  write  the  music,  whatever  the  song, 
Whatever  its  rhyme,  or  metre  ; 

And  if  it  is  sad,  we  can  make  it  glad, 

Or  if  sweet,  we  can  make  it  sweeter. 

One  has  a song  that  is  free  and  strong ; 

But  the  music  he  writes  is  minor ; 

And  the  sad,  sad  strain  is  replete  with  pain, 
And  the  singer  becomes  a repiner. 

And  he  thinks  God  gave  him  a dirge-like  lay, 
Nor  knows  that  the  words  are  cheery ; 

And  the  song  seems  lonely  and  solemn — only 
Because  the  music  is  dreary. 


10 


SHELLS . 


And  the  song  of  another  has  through  the  words 
An  under  current  of  sadness  ; 

But  he  sets  it  to  music  of  ringing  chords, 

And  makes  it  a pean  of  gladness. 

So  whether  our  songs  are  sad  or  not, 

We  can  give  the  world  more  pleasure, 

And  better  ourselves,  by  setting  the  words 
To  a glad,  triumphant  measure. 

1872. 


THE  MESSENGER. 

She  rose  up,  in  the  early  dawn, 

And  white,  and  silently  she  moved 
About  the  house  : Four  men  had  gone 
To  battle  for  the  land  they  loved  : 

And  she,  the  mother,  and  the  wife, 

Waited  for  tidings  from  the  strife. 

How  still  the  house  seemed ; and  her  tread 
Sounded  like  footsteps  of  the  dead. 

The  long  day  passed.  The  dark  night  came. 

She  had  not  seen  a human  face. 

Some  voice  spoke  suddenly  her  name. 

How  loud  it  sounded  in  that  place 
Where,  day  on  day,  no  sound  was  heard 
But  her  own  footsteps.  “Bring  you  word,” 


SHELLS. 


11 


She  cried,  to  whom  she  could  not  see — 

“Word  from  the  battle,  plain  to  me  ?” 

A soldier  entered  at  the  door, 

And  stood  within  the  dim  firelight. 

“I  bring  you  tidings  of  the  four” 

He  said,  “Who  left  you  for  the  fight.” 

“God  bless  you  friend  !”  she  cried,  “speak  on  !” 
For  I can  bear  it.  “One  is  gone  ?” 

“Ay!  one  is  gone!”  he  said,  “Which  one?” 
“Dear  lady — he,  your  eldest  son.” 

A deathly  pallor  shot  across 

Her  withered  face  : she  did  not  weep. 

She  said,  “It  is  a grievous  loss, 

But  God  gives  his  beloved  sleep. 

What  of  the  living — of  the  three, 

And  when  can  they  come  back  to  me  ?” 

The  soldier  turned  away  his  head, 

“Lady,  your  husband  too,  is  dead.” 

She  put  her  hand  upon  her  brow. 

A wild,  sharp  pain,  was  in  her  eyes, 

“My  husband  ? oh  God  help  me  now.” 

The  soldier  shivered  at  her  sighs. 

The  task  was  harder  than  he  thought. 

“Your  youngest  son,  dear  madam,  fought 
Close  at  his  father’s  side  : both  fell 
Dead,  by  the  bursting  of  a shell.” 


1 2 


SHELLS. 


She  moved  her  lips  and  seemed  to  moan. 

Her  face  had  paled  to  ashen  grey — 

“Then  one  is  left  me — one  alone,” 

She  said,  “of  four  who  marched  away. 

Oh  Over-ruling,  All-wise  God, 

How  can  I pass  beneath  Thy  rod  !” 

The  soldier  walked  across  the  floor, 

Paused  at  the  window,  at  the  door — 

Wiped  the  cold  dew  drops  from  his  cheek 
And  sought  the  mourned s side  again. 
“Once  more,  dear  lady,  I must  speak. 

Your  last  remaining  son  was  slain 
Just  at  the  closing  of  the  fight, 

’Twas  he  who  sent  me  here  to-night.” 

“God  knows,”  the  man  said  afterward, 

“The  fight  itself,  was  not  as  hard.” 

1871. 


IDLE. 

I sit  in  the  twilight  dim, 

At  the  close  of  an  idle  day, 

And  list  to  the  sweet,  soft  hymn 
That  rises  far  away 

And  dies  on  the  evening  air. 

Oh  all  day  long  they  sing  their  song 
Who  toil  in  the  valley  there. 


SHELLS . 


13 


But  never  a song  sing  I, 

Sitting  with  folded  hands. 

The  hours  pass  me  by, 

Dropping  their  golden  sands. 

And  I list  from  day  to  day 
To  the  tick,  tick,  tock,  of  the  old  brown  clock 
Ticking  my  life  away. 

And  I see  the  sunlight  fade, 

And  I see  the  night  come  on ; 

And  then,  in  the  gloom  and  shade, 

I weep  for  the  day  that  is  gone. 

Weep,  and  wail,  in  pain, 

For  the  misspent  day  that  has  flown  away 
And  will  not  come  again. 

Another  morning  beams, 

But  I forget  the  last, 

And  sit  in  my  idle  dreams 
Till  the  day  is  overpast. 

Oh  the  toiler’s  heart  is  glad 
When  the  day  is  gone  and  the  night  comes  on, 
But  mine  is  sore,  and  sad. 

For  I dare  not  look  behind  : 

No  shining,  golden  sheaves 

Can  I ever  hope  to  find — 

Nothing  but  withered  leaves. 


SHELLS. 


Ah  ! dreams  are  very  sweet  ! 

But  will  it  please  if  only  these 
I lay  at  the  Master’s  feet. 

And  what  will  the  Master  say, 

To  dreams  and  nothing  more  ? 

Oh  idler  all  the  day  ! 

Think,  ere  thy  life  is  o’er  ! 

And  when  the  day  grows  late, 

Oh  soul  of  sin,  will  He  let  you  in 
There  at  the  pearly  gate  ? 

Oh  idle  heart  beware  ! 

On,  to  the  field  of  strife! 

On  to  the  valley  there, 

And  live  a useful  life. 

Up  ! do  not  wait  a day, 

For  the  old  brown  clock,  with  its  tick,  tick,  tock, 
Is  ticking  your  life  away. 

1869. 


YE  A GENTS. 

These  agent  men!  these  agent  men! 

We  hear  the  dreaded  step  again, 

We  see  a stranger  at  the  door; 

And  brace  ourselves  for  war  once  more. 


SHELLS . 


15 


He  bows  and  smiles.  “Walk  in,”  we  say, 

He  smiles  again.  “ I come  to-day, 

Dear  Madam,  with  a great  invention ; 
And  Sir,  pray  give  me  your  attention  ; 
Now  here,  you  see,  is  something  new, 

And  just  the  thing,  my  friends,  for  you.” 

In  vain  we  interrupt  and  say : 

“We  shall  not  buy  of  you  to-day.” 

“ But,  Madam,  Sir,  you  have  not  seen 
The  beauties  of  this  new  machine  ; 

When  thus  arranged,  your  old  affair, 

’Tis  plain  to  see,  is  just  nowhere.” 

“No  doubt,”  I say;  “ ’Tis  very  fine, 

And  quite  superior  to  mine.” 

This  gives  him  courage.  On  he  goes, 
And  every  sentence  glibly  flows, 

Until  his  lesson  is  repeated 
To  “warranted  if  fitly  treated.” 

“Yes,  new  and  fine,  and  grand,”  we  say, 
“But  still  we  shall  not  buy  to-day.” 

“ But,  Madam,  Sir,  pray  list  to  reason, 
’Twill  buy  itself  in  half  a season  ; 

You  see  the  thing  is  bound  to  go.” 

“Oh  certainly,  we  see,  we  know, 

But  still  we  do  not  wish  to  buy.” 

He  turns  and  leaves  us  with  a sigh, 


16 


SHELLS . 


And  while  we  hasten  to  our  labor 
He  goes  and  persecutes  our  neighbor. 

But  lo  ! another  follows  on, 

Before  the  last  is  fairly  gone. 

One  day  a reaper,  next  a mower, 

And  then  a fanning  mill,  and  sower ; 

Machines  of  all  kinds  ’neath  the  sun, 

Each  better  than  the  other  one ; 

A rocker  for  each  dining  chair, 

A brace  to  hold  the  broom  in  air, 

A book,  just  out,  and  you  must  buy 
Or  give  a proper  reason  why. 

So  if  we  sometimes  turn  away 
Abruptly,  Sirs,  you  must  remember, 

That  we  have  heard  your  tale  each  day 
From  early  Spring  to  late  December. 

Why  ! if  we  listened  to  you  all, 

And  gave  you  the  required  attention, 

I think  ere  long  each  one  would  call, 

The  “ county  house,”  the  best  invention. 

1869. 


WARNED. 

They  stood  at  the  garden  gate. 
By  the  lifting  of  a lid 


SHELLS . 


17 


She  might  have  read  her  fate 
In  a little  thing  he  did. 

He  plucked  a beautiful  flower, 

Tore  it  away  from  its  place 

On  the  side  of  the  blooming  bower, 
And  held  it  against  his  face. 

Drank  in  its  beauty  and  bloom, 

In  the  midst  of  his  idle  talk  ; 

Then  cast  it  down  to  the  gloom 
And  dust  of  the  garden  walk. 

Ay,  trod  it  under  his  foot, 

As  it  lay  in  his  pathway  there ; 

Then  spurned  it  away  with  his  boot, 
Because  it  had  ceased  to  be  fair. 


Ah  ! the  maiden  might  have  read 
The  doom  of  her  young  life  then  ; 
But  she  looked  in  his  eyes  instead, 
And  thought  him  the  king  of  men. 


She  looked  in  his  eyes  and  blushed, 
She  hid  in  his  strong  arms’  fold ; 
And  the  tale  of  the  flower,  crushed 
And  spurned,  was  once  more  told. 

9 


18 


SHELLS. 


LIFE. 

An  infant  wailing  in  nameless  fear  ; 

A shadow,  perchance,  in  the  quiet  room, 

Or  the  hum  of  an  insect  flying  near, 

Or  the  screech-owl’s  cry,  in  the  outer  gloom. 


A little  child  on  the  sun-checked  floor, 

A broken  toy,  and  a tear  stained  face, 

A young  life  clouded,  a young  heart  sore  ; 

And  the  great  clock,  time,  ticks  on  apace. 

A maiden  weeping  in  bitter  pain, 

Two  white  hands  clasped  on  an  aching  brow. 
A blighted  faith  and  a fond  hope  slain, 

A shattered  trust  and  a broken  vow. 

A matron  holding  a baby’s  shoe, 

The  hot  tears  gather,  and  fall  at  will 
On  the  knotted  ribbon  of  white  and  blue, 

For  the  foot  that  wore  it  is  cold  and  still. 


An  aged  woman  upon  her  bed, 

Worn,  and  wearied,  and  poor  and  old, 
Longing  to  rest  with  the  happy  dead, 
And  thus  the  story  of  life  is  told. 


SHELLS. 


19 


Where  is  the  season  of  careless  glee  ? 

Where  is  the  moment  that  holds  no  pain  ? 

Life  has  its  crosses  from  infancy 

Down  to  the  grave ; and  its  hopes  are  vain. 

1870. 


STARS. 

Astronomers  may  gaze  the  heavens  o’er, 

Discovering  wonders,  great,  perhaps,  and  true  ! 

That  stars  are  worlds,  and  peopled  like  our  own, 

But  I shall  never  think  as  these  men  do. 

I shall  believe  them  little  shining  things, 

Fashioned  from  heavenly  ore,  and  filled  with  light. 

And  to  the  sky  above,  so  smoothly  blue, 

An  angel  comes  and  nails  them,  every  night. 

And  I have  seen  him.  You  no  doubt  would  think 
A white  cloud,  sailed  across  the  heavens  blue. 

But  as  I watched  the  feathery  thing,  it  was 
An  angel  nailing  up  the  stars  I knew. 

And  all  night  long  they  shine  for  us  below ; 

Shine  in  pale  splendor,  till  the  mighty  sun 

Wakes  up  again.  And  then  the  angel  comes, 

And  gathers  in  his  treasures,  one  by  one. 


20 


SHELLS. 


How  sweet  the  task  ! Oh  when  this  life  is  done, 
And  I have  joined  the  angel  band  on  high, 

Of  all  that  throng,  oh  may  it  be  my  lot, 

To  nail  the  stars  upon  the  evening  sky. 

1868. 


FADING • 

She  sits  beside  the  window.  All  who  pass 
Turn  once  again  to  gaze  on  her  sweet  face. 

She  is  so  fair ; but  soon,  too  soon,  alas, 

To  lie  down  in  her  last  low  resting  place. 

No  gems  are  brighter  than  her  sparkling  eyes. 

Her  brow  like  polished  marble,  white  and  fair — 

Her  cheeks  as  glowing  as  the  sunset  skies — 

You  would  not  dream  that  death  was  lurking  there. 

But,  oh  ! he  lingers  closely  at  her  side, 

And  when  the  forest  dons  its  Autumn  dress, 

We  know  that  he  will  claim  her  as  his  bride, 

And  earth  will  number  one  fair  spirit  less. 

She  sees  the  meadow  robed  in  richest  green — 

The  laughing  stream — the  willows  bending  o’er. 

With  tear  dimmed  eyes  she  views  each  sylvan  scene, 
And  thinks  earth  never  was  so  fair  before. 


SHELLS . 


21 


♦ 


We  do  not  sigh  for  Heaven,  till  we  have  known, 
Something  of  sorrow,  something  of  grief  and  woe, 
And  as  a summer  day  her  life  has  flown. 

Then,  can  we  wonder  she  is  loth  to  go  ? 

She  has  no  friends  in  Heaven  : all  are  here. 

No  lost  one  waits  her  in  that  unknown  land, 

And  life  grows  doubly,  trebly  sweet  and  dear, 

As  day  by  day  she  nears  the  mystic  strand. 

We  love  her  and  we  grieve  to  see  her  go. 

But  it  is  Christ  who  calls  her  to  His  breast, 

And  He  shall  greet  her,  and  she  soon  shall  know 
The  joys  of  souls  that  dwell  among  the  blest. 

1869. 


HA  UNTED. 

“We  walk  upon  the  sea-shore,  you  and  I, 

Just  two  alone,”  you  say.  But  there  are  three ; 
A tall  and  manly  form  is  walking  nigh, 

And  as  I move,  he  moves  along  with  me. 

Your  shadow  ? No,  for  shadows  do  not  speak, 
And  he  is  speaking,  tenderly  and  low, 

Words  that  bring  crimson  blushes  to  my  cheek, 
You  cannot  hear,  the  sea  is  sounding  so. 


22 


SHELLS . 


But  it  is  strange  you  cannot  see  him  there, 

My  darling  with  the  broad  and  snowy  brow. 

You  never  saw  a face  so  grandly  fair. 

I’ll  stand  aside — there,  do  you  see  him  now  ? 

No  ! well  you  jest,  or  else  you’re  growing  blind ; 

Blue  eyes  are  never  very  strong,  you  know ; 

This  summer  sun  and  wind  are  bad  combined, 

You  should  not  walk  here  where  the  sea  gales  blow. 

Ah,  he  who  walks  here  at  my  side  has  eyes 
That  sun,  nor  wind  can  dim  their  eagle  sight, 
You’ve  seen  the  thunder  cloud  in  stormy  skies — 

Well,  so  his  eyes  are,  full  of  purple  light. 

Dead  ! what  a foolish  thing  for  you  to  say, 

When  I can  see  him  walking  at  my  side ; 

Just  as  we  walked  a year  ago  to-day, 

When  first  I promised  him  to  be  his  bride. 

Go,  leave  us.  We  had  rather  be  alone. 

Your  words  are  wild  to-day.  Go,  let  me  be 
With  him  a while.  And  when  an  hour  has  flown 
I’ll  follow  you.  But  now  he  waits  for  me. 


SHULLS. 


23 


GHOSTS. 

There  are  ghosts  in  the  room, 

As  I sit  here  alone,  from  the  dark  corners  there 
They  come  out  of  the  gloom 
And  they  stand  at  my  side,  and  they  lean  on  my  chair. 


There’s  the  ghost  of  a hope 
That  lighted  my  days  with  a fanciful  glow. 

In  her  hand  is  the  rope 

That  strangled  her  life  out.  Hope  was  slain  long  ago. 


But  her  ghost  comes  to-night, 

With  its  skeleton  face,  and  expressionless  eyes, 

And  it  stands  in  the  light, 

And  mocks  me,  and  jeers  me  with  sobs  and  with  sighs. 

There’s  the  ghost  of  a Joy, 

A frail,  fragile  thing,  and  I prized  it  too  much, 

And  the  hands  that  destroy 
Clasped  it  close,  and  it  died  at  the  withering  touch. 

There’s  the  ghost  of  a love, 

Bom  with  joy,  reared  with  Hope,  died  in  pain  and  unrest, 


24 


SHELLS. 


But  he  towers  above 

All  the  others — this  ghost : yet  a ghost  at  the  best. 

I am  weary,  and  fain 

Would  forget  all  these  dead  : but  the  gibbering  host 
Make  the  struggle  in  vain, 

In  each  shadowy  corner,  there  lurketh  a ghost. 

1869. 


TIM’S  STORY. 

I was  out  promenading  one  fine  summer  day, 

When  I chanced  upon  three  bosom  cronies  to  stray, 
And  a beer  shop  we  happened  to  pass  on  our  way. 

“ Now  boys,”  said  I,  stopping  them  all  with  a wink, 
“If  you’ll  step  round  the  corner,  I’ll  treat  to  a drink  ; 
How  is  it,  my  hearties  ? now,  what  do  you  think  ?” 

So  into  the  bar-room  we  dropped  in  a flash, 

And  up  to  the  keeper  I went  with  a dash  : 

“ Four  glasses  of  lager,  and  none  of  your  trash, 

But  the  best  and  the  foamiest  money  can  bring,” 

Was  the  order  I gave,  with  the  air  of  a king ; 

And  mine  host  fluttered  off,  like  a bird  on  the  wing. 


SHELLS. 


25 


J ust  then  an  old  toper  dropped  in  from  the  street, 

A jolly  old  soak,  with  a nose  like  a beet, 

And  he  said,  “ Now,  my  rummys,  I’ll  share  in  that  treat.” 

But  I said  to  my  cronies,  “Say  boys,  look  ye  there  ! 

Do  you  ’spose  such  a nosey  will  fall  to  our  share  ?” 

Quoth  the  toper,  “ Keep  drinking,  my  lads,  and  you’ll 
wear 

A nose  like  my  own,  or  I miss  in  my  guess.” 

“ Why,”  said  Ned,  “it  resembles  the  light  of  distress.” 

Said  Tom,  “ It’s  the  color  of  Sally  Ann’s  dress.” 

Said  Billy,  “ It  looks  like  the  sun’s  ruddy  bed, 

And  shines  like  the  top  of  my  grandfather’s  head.” 

Said  I,  “It  is  ready,  I think,  to  be  bled.” 

“ Now  thank  ye,  my  lads,”  said  old  soak  with  a bow, 

“ But  gulp  down  your  lager,  ’twill  soon  show  ye  how 
Red  noses  are  painted  and  polished,  I vow.” 

I turned  to  my  cronies  : “Now,  boys,  look  ye  here  ! 

I would’nt,  I say,  for  ten  thousand  a year, 

Have  my  nose  grow  to  look  like  the  one  beaming  near  !” 

“ Nor  I,  sir  !”  “ Nor  I,  sir  !”  “Nor  I !”  cried  each  chum; 
Then,  said  I,  “A  good-bye  to  all  beer,  ale,  and  rum, 

And  hurrah  for  cold  water  ! my  boys,  will  ye  come  ?” 


26 


SHELLS. 


“ We  are  ready  and  willing,”  said  Tom,  Bill  and  Ned. 

“ Lets  get  us  a pledge,  boys,  aud  sign  it,”  I said — 

And  so  at  next  meeting,  four  names  were  read 

In  the  Temperance  column.  And  now  should  you  be 
In  these  parts,  and  a fine  looking  fellow  should  see, 
You  may  know  it  is  one  of  my  cronies,  or  me. 

By  lectures,  and  preaching,  some  fellows  are  won, 

But  you  see  it  is  different  with  us  : it  was  done 
By  the  jolly  old  soak,  with  a nose  like  the  sun  ! 

1870. 


MEMORY'S  GARDEN. 

Back  on  its  golden  hinges 
The  gate  of  Memory  swings, 

And  my  heart  goes  into  the  garden 
And  walks  with  the  olden  things. 
The  old-time,  joys  and  pleasures, 
The  loves  that  it  used  to  know, 

It  meets  there  in  the  garden, 

And  they  wander  to  and  fro. 

It  heareth  a peal  of  laughter, 

It  seeth  a face  most  fair, 

It  thrills  with  a wild,  strange  rapture 


SHELLS. 


27 


At  the  glance  of  a dark  eye  there  ; 

It  strayeth  under  the  sunset 
In  the  midst  of  a merry  throng, 

And  beats  in  a tuneful  measure, 

To  the  snatch  of  a floating  song. 

It  heareth  a strain  of  music 
Swell  on  the  dreamy  air, 

A strain  that  is  never  sounded, 

Save  in  the  garden  there. 

It  wanders  among  the  roses, 

And  thrills  at  a long-lost  kiss, 

And  glows  at  the  touch  of  fingers, 

In  a tremor  of  foolish  bliss. 

But  all  is  not  fair  in  the  garden, — 
There’s  a sorrowing  sob  of  pain  ; 
There  are  tear-drops,  bitter,  scalding, 
And  the  roses  are  tempest-slain. 

And  I shut  the  gate  of  the  garden, 

And  walk  in  the  Present’s  ways, 

For  its  quiet  paths  are  better 

Than  the  pain  of  those  vanished  days  ! 


MYSTERIES. 

In  God’s  vast  wisdom,  infinite  and  grand — 
Too  vast,  too  infinite,  for  mortal  mind — 


28 


SHELLS. 


There  are  some  things  I cannot  understand. 

In  all  His  paths,  in  all  His  ways,  I find 
Some  subtle  mysteries  of  life  and  death — 

Some  marvels  that  I cannot  comprehend, 

Nor  can  I hope  to  know  them  till  the  end, 

When  all  shall  be  made  plain,  above — beneath. 

There  are  so  many  of  His  righteous  deeds — 

There  is  so  much  that  unto  me  is  plain, 

I have  no  time  to  wonder — have  no  needs 

To  question  why,  and  wherefore.  In  the  main 
My  mortal  eyes  see  that  His  works  are  good. 
Whatever  else  seems  strange,  and  dark,  and  dim, 
I am  content  to  leave  in  faith  with  Him, 

And  in  His  time  it  will  be  understood. 

These  labyrinths  wherein  many  souls  are  lost — 
These  waters,  whereon  some  barks  lose  the  shore, 
But  draw  me  nearer  to  the  Heavenly  Host, 

But  make  me  love  and  worship  God  the  more. 
There  is  enough  that  I do  see  and  know — 

Thore  is  enough  that  I can  understand, 

And  sometime  Christ  shall  take  me  by  the  hand, 
Explaining  all  that  seems  so  strange  below. 


1870. 


SHELLS . 


29 


WHAT  THE  WINDS  TOLD  ME. 

The  winds  come  from  the  West, 
Come  softly,  mildly, 

“What  tidings  do  you  bring  ?” 

I questioned  wildly. 

They  sang  a tender  tune, 

And  answered  lightly — 

“Your  darling’s  path  is  fair  ! 

The  sun  shines  brightly.” 

The  winds  came  from  the  West, 
Came  shrieking,  greaning. 

“What  tidings  now,  oh  wind  ?” 

My  heart  cried  moaning. 

They  answered  loud,  and  wild, 
“When  danger  stalketh — 

And  death  is  waiting,  near, 

Your  darling  walketh.” 

The  winds  came  from  the  West, 
Came  weeping,  wailing. 

“Oh  tell  me,  tell  me,  winds !” 

My  heart  cried,  failing. 

“Where  none  are  near  to  soothe,” 
They  answered  sighing, 

“In  loneliness  and  pain, 

Your  love  is  dying  !” 


30 


SHELLS . 


The  winds  came  from  the  West ! 

Came  sadly  sobbing. 

And  with  an  awful  fear, 

My  heait  was  throbbing. 

I wildly  questioned  them 
Amidst  my  weeping, 

“All  still,  and  white,”  they  said, 

“ Your  love  is  sleeping.” 

1870. 


SOMETIMES. 

Sometimes  when  I am  all  alone, 
Away  from  noise  and  strife, 

The  many  faults  and  weaknesses, 
That  rule  my  daily  life 
Seem  to  die  out.  And  as  I sit 
From  worldliness  apart, 

All  that  is  good  and  pure  obtains 
The  mastery  of  my  heart. 

And  then  my  soul  turns  heavenward, 
And  I commune  with  God. 

I long  to  tread  the  narrow  path 
That  Christ  before  me  trod. 

I long  to  see  his  precious  face — 

To  go  where  angels  go, 


SHELLS. 


31 


To  leave  the  fleeting,  fading  things 
That  make  up  life  below. 

My  soul  expands  with  ecstacy, 

My  heart  grows  brave,  and  strong, 

To  meet  whatever  lies  ahead — 

To  battle  down  the  wrong. 

No  sorrow  can  affright  my  soul, 

No  earthly  ill,  I fear, 

While  in  that  blessed  trance  I sit 
And  feel  that  God  is  near. 

And  then  I mingle  with  the  world, 

And  falter  day  by  day. 

Until  at  last  I walk  within 
The  olden,  sinful  way. 

O,  shall  I even  grow  in  grace, 

O shall  I ever  be, 

Ready  to  meet  the  judgment  day — 

Fit  for  eternity  ? 

1869. 


BLIND  SORROW. 

One  bitter  time  of  mourning,  I remember, 

When  day,  and  night,  my  sad  heart  did  complain, 
My  life,  I said,  was  one  cold,  bleak  December, 

And  all  its  pleasures,  were  but  whited  pain. 


32 


SHELLS. 


Nothing  could  rouse  me  from  my  sullen  sorrow, 
Because  you  were  not  near,  I would  not  smile. 

And  from  a score  of  joys  refused  to  borrow 
One  ray  of  light,  to  gild  the  weary  while. 

But  all  the  blessing  God  has  given,  scorning, 

I wept  because  we  were  so  far  apart, 

And  spent  my  time  in  idle,  aimless  mourning, 
That  only  kept  the  grief  fresh  in  my  heart- 

God  pity  me  ! I know  now  we  were  nearer, 

With  all  these  intervening  miles  of  space — 

That  life  was  sweeter,  and  the  future  dearer, 

Than  when  to-day  I met  you,  face  to  face  ! 

God  meant  to  break  it  gently — ease  my  anguish, 
But  I rebelled,  and  caviled  at  His  will. 

Now,  seeing  His  great  wisdom,  though  I languish, 
In  bitter  pain,  I trust  His  mercy  still. 


“BE  NOT  WEARY.” 

Sometimes,  when  T am  toil-worn  and  aweary, 
All  tired  out,  with  working  long,  and  well, 
And  earth  is  dark,  and  skies  above  are  dreary, 
And  heart  and  soul  are  all  too  sick  to  tell, 


SHELLS. 


33 


These  words  have  come  to  me,  like  angel  fingers, 
Pressing  the  spirit  eyelids  down  in  sleep. 

“Oh  let  us  not  be  weary  in  well  doing, 

For  in  due  season  we  shall  surely  reap.” 

Oh  blessed  promise  ! when  I seem  to  hear  it, 
Whispered  by  angel  voices  on  the  air, 

It  breathes  new  life,  and  courage  to  my  spirit, 

And  gives  me  strength  to  suffer  and  forbear. 

And  I can  wait  most  patiently  for  harvest, 

And  cast  my  seeds,  nor  ever  faint,  nor  weep, 

If  I know  surely,  that  my  work  availeth, 

And  in  God’s  season,  I at  last  shall  reap. 

When  mind  and  body  were  borne  down  completely 
And  I have  thought  my  efforts  were  all  vain, 
These  words  have  come  to  me,  so  softly,  sweetly, 
And  whispered  hope,  and  urged  me  on  again. 

And  though  my  labor  seems  all  unavailing, 

And  all  my  strivings  fruitless,  yet  the  Lord 
Doth  treasure  up  each  little  seed  I scatter, 

And  sometime,  sometime , I shall  reap  reward. 

1870. 


TO  THOSE  WHO  HE  FEE  PRAY. 

O ! you  who  never  bend  the  knee, 

And  never  lift  the  heart, 


3 


4 


SHELLS . 


How  do  you  live  from  year  to  year, 

And  living,  act  your  part. 

How  do  you  rise  up  in  the  morn, 

And  pass  the  whole  day  through, 

Without  the  Saviour  at  your  side 
To  guide  and  strengthen  you. 

How  do  you  meet  the  daily  ills 
That  try  the  temper  so  ! 

That  fret  the  heart  and  wear  the  soul 
More  than  some  master  woe. 

How  do  you  close  your  eyes  and  sleep, 

And  how  your  crosses  bear  ; 

(Each  has  a cross,  or  small,  or  large) 
Without  the  aid  of  prayer  ? 

How  do  you  meet  the  mighty  griefs, 

That  rush  upon  the  soul, 

Engulfing  it  in  bitterness, 

As  angry  waters  roll  ? 

How  do  you  live  at  all \ is  one 
Deep  mystery  to  me, 

Oh  you  who  never  lift  the  heart 
And  never  bend  the  knee. 

1870. 


SHELLS . 


HUNG . 

Nine  o’clock,  and  the  sun  shines  as  yellow  and  warm, 

As  though  ’twere  a fete  day.  I wfsh  it  would  storm  : 
Wish  the  thunder  would  crash, 

And  the  red  lightning  flash, 

And  lap  the  black  clouds,  with  its  serpentine  tongue — 
The  day  is  too  calm,  for  a man  to  be  hung. 

Hung  : ugh,  what  a word  ! 

The  most  heartless,  and  horrible,  ear  ever  heard. 

He  has  murdered,  and  plundered,  and  robbed,  so  they 
say,” 

Been  the  scourge  of  the  country,  for  many  a day. 

He  was  lawless  and  wild  ; 

Man,  woman,  or  child 
Met  no  mercy,  no  pity,  if  found  in  his  path. 

He  was  worse  than  a beast  of  the  woods,  in  his  wrath. 
And  yet — to  be  hung , 

Oh  my  God  ! to  be  swung 
By  the  neck  to,  and  fro,  for  the  rabble  to  see — 

The  thought  sickens  me. 

Thirty  minutes  past  nine.  How  the  time  hurries  by, 

But  a half  hour  remains,  at  ten  he  will  die. 

Die  ? No  ! he’ll  be  killed  / 

For  God  never  willed 


Men  should  us  way. 

“Vengeance  is  mine/’  F “I  will  repay.” 

Yet  what  could  be  done, 


36 


S 


With  this  wild,  lawless  one  ! 

No  prison  could  hold  him,  and  so — he  must  swing, 
It’s  a horrible  thing. 

Outcast,  Desperado,  Fiend,  Knave  ; all  of  these 
And  more.  But  call  him  whatever  you  please 


I cannot  forget, 

He’s  a mortal  man  yet  : 


That  he  once  was  a babe,  and  was  hushed  into  rest, 
And  fondled,  and  pressed,  to  a woman’s  warm  breast. 


Was  sung  to,  and  rocked, 
And  when  he  first  walked 


With  his  weak  little  feet,  he  was  petted,  and  told 
He  was  “mamma’s  own  pet,  worth  his  whole  weight  in 
gold.” 

And  this  is  the  end 

Of  a God-given  life.  Just  think  of  it,  friend  ! 

Hark  ! hear  you  that  chime  ? ’tis  the  clock  striking  ten. 
The  dread  weight  falls  down,  with  a sound  like  “amen.” 
Does  murder  pay  murder  ? do  two  wrongs  make  a right  ? 


Oh  that  horrible  sight  ! 


I am  shut  in  my  room,  and  have  covered  my  face  ; 
But  the  dread  scene  has  followed  me  into  this  place. 


T see  that  strange  thing, 

Like  a clock  pendulum  swing 


SHELLS. 


To  and  fro,  in  the  air,  back  and  forth,  to  and  fro. 

One  moment  ago 

’Twas  a man,  in  God’s  image  ! now  hide  it,  kind  grave . 
What  a terrible  end,  to  the  life  that  God  gave. 

1871. 


COMPASSION. 

There  is  a picture,  that  I sometimes  see, 

Of  Jesus,  with  a child  upon  his  breast. 

And  other  children  clustered  at  his  knee — 

The  little  lambs  of  God,  that  he  had  blest. 

And  this  one — lying  on  the  Saviour’s  arm 

Looks  up  and  smiles,  in  that  most  sainted  face, 

And  knowing  he  is  well  secured  from  harm 
He  falls  asleep  in  that  safe  resting  place. 

To-night  I am  so  weary,  heart,  and  soul. 

So  worn  out,  with  a thousand  nameless  ills. 

My  spirit  longs  intensely  for  its  goal 
And  every  fibre  of  my  being  thrills 

With  mighty  yearning.  “Oh  to  be  that  child — 
To  lie  upon  my  Saviour’s  breast.”  I weep, 

“ And  looking  on  that  face  so  meekly  mild, 

Forget  my  tears,  and  sweetly  fall  asleep.” 

It  is  not  always  so  : sometimes  the  earth 
And  earthly  friends,  can  satisfy  my  heart. 


38 


SHELLS. 


But  now — to-night — I feel  their  shallow  worth, 

And  feel,  oh  Christ  my  Saviour,  that  Thou  art 
And  Thou  alone,  the  only  faithful  friend 
Who  knowing  all  my  sins,  and  seeing  me 
Just  as  I am,  will  pity  to  the  end 

And  in  compassion,  judge  me  tenderly. 

I am  so  weak,  and  sinful — every  day 

The  sins  and  failings  that  I most  condemn, 

And  most  abhor  in  others — I straitway 
Go  forth,  and  wickedly  walk  into  them. 

But  Christ  who  was  in  mortal  form  one  time 
And  dwelt  upon  the  earth,  will  understand. 

And  through  a love  and  pity  most  sublime, 

Will  write  me  out  a pardon  with  His  hand. 

1869. 


FAME. 

If  I should  die,  to-day, 

To-morrow,  maybe,  the  world  would  see — 
Would  waken  from  sleep,  and  say, 

“ Why  here  was  talent ! why  here  was  worth  ! 
Why  here  was  a luminous  light  o’  the  earth. 

A soul  as  free 

As  the  winds  of  the  sea : 

To  whom  was  given 


SHELLS. 


39 


A dower  of  heaven. 

And  fame,  and  name,  and  glory  belongs 
To  this  dead  singer  of  living  songs. 

Bring  hither  a wreath,  for  the  bride  of  death  !” 

And  so  they  would  praise  me,  and  so  they  would  raise  me 
Mayhap,  a column,  high  over  the  bed 
Where  I should  be  lying,  all  cold  and  dead. 

But  I am  a living  poet ! 

Walking  abroad  in  the  sunlight  of  God, 

Not  lying  asleep,  where  the  clay  worms  creep, 

And  the  cold  world  will  not  show  it, 

E’en  when  it  sees  that  my  song  should  please  ; 

But  sneering  says:  “ Avaunt,  with  thy  lays  ! 

Do  not  sing  them,  and  do  not  bring  them 
Into  this  rustling,  bustling  life. 

We  have  no  time,  for  a jingling  rhyme, 

In  this  scene  of  hurrying,  worrying  strife.” 

And  so  I say,  there  is  but  one  way 
To  win  me  a name,  and  bring  me  fame. 

And  that  is,  to  die,  and  be  buried  low, 

When  the  world  would  praise  me,  an  hour  or  so. 

1870. 


HER  MOTHERS  BEAUTIFUL  EYES. 

I met  a young  girl  on  the  street ; 

I was  a stranger  to  her,  no  more. 


40 


SHELLS . 


But  the  glance  of  her  brown  eyes,  shy  and  sweet, 
Set  me  to  dreaming  of  days  of  yore. 

Ah  ! she  does  not  know,  but  long  ago 
When  life  was  as  cloudless  as  June’s  blue  skies, 

Her  mother  was  all  the  world  to  me  ; 

And  she 

Has  her  mother’s  beautiful  eyes. 

She  lifted  her  lashes,  and  let  them  fall ; 

Raised  them  and  dropped  them  as  I past  by. 

A grizzled  old  stranger,  that  was  all 
She  saw,  for  she  could  not  know  that  I 
In  the  dear,  dear  past 
Too  sweet  to  last 

Had  found  my  Eden,  my  paradise, 

In  her  mother’s  beautiful  eyes. 

I loved,  and  was  loved.  But  a word  was  said 
In  thoughtless  jest,  and  the  work  was  done. 

The  hopes  I had  cherished,  lay  blasted,  dead — 
My  rival  pleaded  his  suit,  and  won. 

And  their  child — ah  me  ! is  fair  to  see ; 

I wonder  if  she's  as  good  and  wise, 

As  sweet  and  kind,  and  pure  of  mind 

As  the  one  who  bequeathed  her  those  beautiful  eyes. 

She  has  her  father’s  step,  and  air. 

Her  father’s  brow,  and  his  pale,  dark  cheek, 
And  her  father’s  tawny,  curling  hair, 


SHELLS. 


41 


And  her  father’s  mouth,  half  sweet,  half  weak. 

All  very  true. 

And  “she’s  like  her  father  through  and  through,” 

I said  when  we  met  on  the  street  that  day, 

“ And  not  like  her  mother  in  any  way.” 

Then  I caught  my  breath  with  a start  of  surprise, 
(That  she  did  not  see) 

For  the  child  of  my  rival  glanced  up  at  me 
With  her  mother’s  beautiful  eyes. 

1871. 


OLD  TIMES. 

Friend  of  my  youth,  let  us  talk  of  old  times  ; 

Of  the  long  lost  golden  hours. 

When  “Winter”  meant  only  Christmas  chimes, 
And  “ Summer”  wreaths  of  flowers. 

Life  has  grown  old,  and  cold,  my  friend, 

And  the  winter  now,  means  death. 

And  summer  blossoms  speak  all  too  plain 
Of  the  dear,  dead  forms  beneath. 

But  let  us  talk  of  the  past  to-night ; 

And  live  it  over  again, 

We  will  put  the  long  years  out  of  sight, 

And  dream  we  are  young  as  then. 

But  you  must  not  look  at  me,  my  friend, 

And  I must  not  look  at  you, 


42 


SHELLS . 


Or  the  furrowed  brows,  and  silvered  locks, 
Will  prove  our  dream  untrue. 


Let  us  sing  of  the  summer,  too  sweet  to  last, 
And  yet  too  sweet  to  die. 

Let  us  read  tales,  from  the  book  of  the  past, 
And  talk  of  the  days  gone  by. 

We  will  turn  our  backs  to  the  West,  my  friend, 
And  forget  we  are  growing  old. 

The  skies  of  the  Present  are  dull,  and  gray, 

But  the  Past’s  are  blue,  and  gold. 


The  sun  has  passed  over  the  noontide  line 
And  is  sinking  down  the  West. 

And  of  friends  we  knew  in  days  Lang  Syne, 
Full  half  have  gone  to  rest. 

And  the  few  that  are  left  on  earth,  my  friend 
Are  scattered  far,  and  wide. 

But  you  and  I will  talk  of  the  days 
Ere  any  roamed,  or  died. 


Auburn  ringlets,  and  hazel  eyes — 

Blue  eyes  and  tresses  of  gold. 

Winds  joy  laden,  and  azure  skies, 

Belong  to  those  days  of  old. 

* We  will  leave  the  Present’s  shores  awhile 
And  float  on  the  Past’s  smooth  sea. 


SHELLS. 


43 


But  I must  not  look  at  you,  my  friend, 
And  you  must  not  look  at  me. 


1871. 


THIS  WORLD. 

This  world  is  a sad,  sad  place  I know  ; 

And  what  soul  living  can  doubt  it. 

But  it  will  not  lessen  the  want  and  woe, 

To  be  always  singing  about  it. 

Then  away  with  the  songs  that  are  full  of  tears, 
Away  with  dirges  that  sadden. 

Let  us  make  the  most  of  our  fleeting  years, 

By  singing  the  lays  that  gladden. 

The  world  at  its  saddest  is  not  all  sad — 

There  are  days  of  sunny  weather. 

And  the  people  within  it  are  not  all  bad, 

But  saints  and  sinners  together. 

I think  those  wonderful  hours  in  June, 

Are  better  by  far,  to  remember, 

Than  those  when  the  world  gets  out  of  tune 
In  the  cold,  bleak  winds  of  November. 

Because  we  meet  in  the  walks  of  life 
Many  a selfish  creature, 

It  does  not  prove  that  this  world  of  strife 
Has  no  redeeming  feature. 


44 


SHELLS. 


There  is  bloom,  and  beauty  upon  the  earth, 
There  are  buds  and  blossoming  flowers, 

There  are  souls  of  truth,  and  hearts  of  worth — 
There  are  glowing,  golden  hours. 

In  thinking  over  a joy  we’ve  known, 

We  easily  make  it  double. 

Which  is  better  by  far,  than  to  mope  and  moan, 
Over  sorrow  and  grief  and  trouble. 

For  though  this  world  is  sad,  we  know, 

(And  who  that  is  living  can  doubt  it,) 

It  will  not  lessen  the  want,  or  woe, 

To  be  always  singing  about  it. 


GOING  AWAY. 

Walking  to-day  on  the  Common, 

I heard  a stranger  say 
To  a friend  who  was  standing  near  him, 
“Do  you  know  I am  going  away  ?” 

I had  never  seen  their  faces  : 

May  never  see  them  again, 

But  the  words  the  stranger  uttered, 
Stirred  me  with  nameless  pain. 

For  I knew  some  heart  would  miss  him, 
Would  ache  at  his  “going  away,” 


SHELLS. 


45 


And  the  earth  would  seem  all  cheerless, 
For  many  and  many  a day. 

No  matter  how  glad  my  spirit. 

No  matter  how  light  my  heart. 

If  I hear  these  two  words  uttered, 

The  tear  drops  always  start. 

They  are  so  sad  and  solemn, 

So  full  of  a lonely  sound  : 

Like  dead  leaves  rustling  downward, 
And  dropping  upon  the  ground. 

Oh  I pity  the  naked  branches, 

When  the  skies  are  dull  and  gray, 

And  the  last  leaf  whispers  softly, 

“ Good  bye,  I am  going  away.” 

In  the  dreary,  dripping  Autumn, 

The  wings  of  the  flying  birds 

As  they  soar  away  to  the  southland, 
Seem  always  to  say  these  words. 

Where  ever  they  may  be  uttered, 

They  fall  with  a sob,  and  sigh  ; 

And  heart-aches  follow  the  sentence, 

“ I am  going  away — Good  bye.” 

Oh  God,  in  Thy  blessed  kingdom 
No  lips  shall  ever  say, 

No  ears  shall  ever  hearken, 

To  the  words  “ I am  going  away.” 


4G 


SHELLS. 


For  no  soul  ever  wearies 

Of  the  dear,  bright,  angel  band, 

And  no  saint  ever  wanders, 

From  the  sunny,  golden  land. 

1872. 


GOOD  BYE. 

He  rose,  and  passing,  paused  by  her. 

They  stood  a moment  in  the  door. 

His  dark  eyes  made  her  pulses  stir 
As  they  had  never  stirred  before; 

How  soft  the  night  bird  sang  above 
The  dull  brown  heath.  Oh  Life,  oh  Love  ! 

He  took  her  hand,  and  said  “ Good  bye.” 

Then,  singing  blithely,  went  across 
The  sodden  fields  : nor  heard  the  cry 
Her  heart  sent  up,  nor  knew  her  loss. 
How  bleak,  and  wild,  and  desolate, 

The  wind  blew  down.  Oh  Love,  oh  Fate  ! 

The  west  turned  suddenly  aflame; 

Striped  here  and  there  with  blue  and  gold. 
She  shook  with  chills  she  could  not  name. 
The  air  seemed  strangely  harsh,  and  cold. 


SHELLS. 


47 


How  keen  the  winds  were,  and  how  rife 
With  wintry  sounds.  Oh  Love,  oh  Life  ! 

She  waited  till  she  saw  him  pass 
Across  the  meadow,  out  of  sight. 

His  shadow  fell  upon  the  grass; 

The  winds  were  talking  of  the  night. 

How  high  they  whirled  the  withered  leaf ; 
How  swift  it  flew.  Oh  Love,  oh  Grief. 

She  shut  the  door,  and  turned  away. 

Some  task  was  waiting  for  her  hand. 

She  shut  another  door,  where  lay, 

Her  sweet  dead  hope.  You  understand. 
“ And  they  shall  weep  no  more,”  God  saith, 
“Nor  taste  of  pain.”  Oh  Life,  oh  Death. 


JAMIE. 

In  through  the  kitchen,  the  boys  came  trooping  : 

Will,  and  Sammy,  and  Bob  and  Fred, 

And  Johnny  and  Jamie,  the  twins,  came  after, 

Setting  the  rafters,  a-ring  with  laughter. 

Woe  for  the  words  I said  ! 

I looked  at  the  floor  I had  swept  and  dusted, 

And  saw  the  litter  the  twelve  feet  brought ; 

And  I sighed,  and  frowned,  on  the  six  bright  blossoms, 
And  frowning,  spoke  my  thought. 


48 


SHULLS. 


“ Oh,  was  there  ever  so  weary  a woman  ! 

I have  been  only  twelve  years  wed. 

But  I’ve  never  a moment  of  peace  or  quiet. 

Six  rough  boys,  with  their  noise  and  riot, 

Are  wearing  me  out,”  I said. 

“ Six  rough  boys  to  mend  and  work  for, 

To  clothe  and  feed — it  is  hard  at  best ; 

There’s  never  an  end  to  my  weary  labors, 

There  is  no  time  for  rest.” 

Dark  fell  the  shadows  around  my  little  cottage, 

Weeping  I leaned  over  one  little  bed, 

Vain  were  the  tears  on  the  tiny  face  falling  ; 

In  the  dim  distance  I heard  a voice  calling — 

“ Come  unto  me,”  it  said. 

And  down  through  the  starlight  an  angel  descended, 
And  stood  by  my  Jamie’s  low  bedside. 

“ Come  ! there  is  room  with  the  angels,”  she  whispered, 
“ Heaven  is  fair  and  wide.” 

“Fair  are  its  meadows,  and  wide  are  its  mansions, 

And  thousands  of  children  are  gathered  there.” 

Vain  were  the  prayers  that  I prayed,  leaning  o’er  him, 
Up  to  the  mansions  of  heaven  she  bore  him. 

Woe  for  my  heart’s  despair  ! 

Oh,  to  recall  the  harsh  words  that  I uttered  ! 

Oh,  for  his  litter  and  noise  to-day  ! 

Oh,  for  the  labor  his  hands  would  make  me  ! 

Hands  that  are  turned  to  clay. 


SHULLS. 


49 


Five  sturdy  boys  troop  into  my  cottage, 

John,  Will,  Sammy,  and  Bob  and  Fred — 

Five  brave  boys  as  e’er  blessed  a mother. 

But  always  and  ever  I miss  the  other, 

The  dear,  dear  boy  that  is  dead. 

I miss  the  ring  of  his  childish  laughter, 

Miss  him  and  mourn  for  him  night  and  day, 

But  wide  are  the  mansions,  and  fair  are  the  meadows 
Where  the  feet  of  my  Jamie  stray. 

1872. 


A MOTHERS  REVERIE. 

The  shadows  drop  down  o’er  the  fields  tinged  with  brown, 
Where  the  snow-drifts  were  gleaming  of  late, 

And  the  day  shuts  her  eyes,  while  th’  red  western  skies 
Make  ready  the  chambers  of  state. 

How  still  the  house  seems  ! while  round  about  gleams 
Th’  last  mellow  rays  of  th’  sun. 

There’s  no  step  on  the  stair — no  voice  anywhere, 

Crying,  “Mother,  the  last  task  is  done  !” 

Can  it  be  I’m  alone  ? can  it  be  there  are  none 
Left  of  eight,  who  have  called  me  that  name  ? 

Four  boys  and  four  girls,  with  their  tresses  and  curls, 

Four  brave  boys,  four  fair  girls,  that  came 

To  my  home  one  by  one,  like  lost  rays  from  the  sun, 

4 


50 


SHELLS. 


And  where  are  they  all  now  ? I pray ; 

Like  birds  from  the  nest,  the  babes  on  my  breast 
Took  wing,  and  have  fluttered  away. 

There  was  John,  my  first  child  ; as  gentle  and  mild 
As  the  maiden  that  grew  at  his  side, — 

First  to  come,  last  to  stay ; but  death  called  him  away, — 
It  is  two  years,  to-day  since  he  died. 

Hope,  Mary,  and  Joe  are  all  married,  and  so 
Have  gone  into  homes  of  their  own  ; 

Mark  is  over  the  sea,  and  Flora — hush  ! we 
Never  speak  of  the  one  who  has  flown. 

My  Will,  bonny  Will,  fell  at  Champion  Hill — 

My  dark-eyed,  my  raven-tressed  son  ; 

There  was  one  at  his  side  fell  too ; and  Kate  died 
Of  grieving  for  Will — and  that  one  ! 

Yet  bravely  we  try,  my  life-mate  and  I, 

To  be  happy  and  cheerful  alway. 

God  knows  best  what  to  do  ; yet  I think  if  we  knew 
She  were  dead,  ’twould  seem  better  to-day. 

1871. 


THE  TWO  GLASSES. 

There  sat  two  glasses,  filled  to  the  brim, 
On  a rich  man’s  table,  rim  to  rim. 


SHELLS. 


51 


One  was  ruddy,  and  red  as  blood, 

And  one  was  as  clear  as  the  crystal  flood. 

Said  the  glass  of  wine  to  his  paler  brother, 

“ Let  us  tell  tales  of  the  past  to  each  other  ; 

I can  tell  of  banquet,  and  revel,  and  mirth, 

Where  I was  king,  for  I ruled  in  might. 

And  the  proudest  and  grandest  souls  on  earth 
Fell  under  my  touch,  as  though  struck  with  blight. 
From  the  heads  of  kings  I have  torn  the  crown, 
From  the  heights  of  fame  I have  hurled  men  down  ; 
I have  blasted  many  an  honored  name, 

1 have  taken  virtue,  and  given  shame ; 

I have  tempted  the  youth,  with  a sip,  a taste, 

That  has  made  his  future  a barren  waste. 

Far  greater  than  any  king  am  I, 

Or  than  any  army  beneath  the  sky. 

I have  made  the  arm  of  the  driver  fail, 

And  sent  the  train  from  its  iron  rail. 

I have  made  good  ships  go  down  at  sea, 

And  the  shrieks  of  the  lost  were  sweet  to  me  ; 

For  they  said,  “ Behold,  how  great  you  be  ! 

Fame,  strength,  wealth,  genius,  before  you  fall, 

And  your  might  and  power  are  over  all.” 

“Ho  ! ho!  pale  brother,”  laughed  the  wine, 

“Can  you  boast  of  deeds  as  great  as  mine  ?” 

Said  the  water  glass,  “ I cannot  boast 
Of  a king  dethroned  or  a murdered  host ; 


52 


SHELLS . 


But  I can  tell  of  hearts  that  were  sad, 

By  my  crystal  drops  made  light  and  glad. 

Of  thirsts  I have  quenched,  and  brows  I’ve  laved  ; 

Of  hands  I have  cooled,  and  souls  I’ve  saved. 

I have  leaped  through  the  valley,  dashed  down  the  moun- 
tain ; 

Slept  in  the  sunshine,  and  dripped  from  the  fountain. 

I have  burst  my  cloud  fetters,  and  dropped  from  the  sky, 
And  everywhere  gladdened  the  landscape  and  eye. 

I have  eased  the  hot  forehead  of  fever  and  pain, 

I have  made  the  parched  meadows  grow  fertile  with 
grain ; 

I can  tell  of  the  powerful  wheel  o’  the  mill, 

That  ground  out  the  flour,  and  turned  at  my  will ; 

I can  tell  ot  manhood,  debased  by  you, 

That  I have  uplifted,  and  crowned  anew. 

I cheer,  I help,  I strengthen  and  aid, 

I gladden  the  heart  of  man  and  maid  ; 

I set  the  chained  wine-captive  free, 

And  all  are  better  for  knowing  me.” 

These  are  the  tales  they  told  each  other, 

The  glass  of  wine,  and  its  paler  brother, 

As  they  sat  together,  filled  to  the  brim, 

On  the  rich  man’s  table,  rim  to  rim. 


1872. 


SHELLS. 


53 


TWILIGHT  THOUGHTS. 

The  God  of  the  day  has  vanished 
The  light  from  the  hills  has  fled, 

And  the  hand  of  an  unseen  artist, 

Is  painting  the  West  all  red. 

All  threaded  with  gold  and  crimson, 
And  burnished  with  amber  dye, 

And  tipped  with  purple  shadows, 

The  glory  flameth  high. 

Fair,  beautiful  world  of  ours  ! 

Fair,  beautiful  world,  but  oh, 

How  darkened  by  pain  and  sorrow, 
How  blackened  by  sin  and  woe. 

The  splendor  pales  in  the  heavens 
And  dies  in  a golden  gleam, 

And  alone  in  the  hush  of  twilight, 

I sit,  in  a checkered  dream. 

I think  of  the  souls  that  are  straying, 

In  shadows  as  black  as  night, 

Of  hands  that  are  groping  blindly 
In  search  of  the  shining  light ; 

Of  hearts  that  are  mutely  crying, 

And  praying  for  just  one  ray, 

To  lead  them  out  of  the  shadows, 

Into  the  better  way. 


54 


SHELLS. 


I think  of  the  Father’s  children 
Who  are  trying  to  walk  alone, 

Who  have  dropped  the  hand  of  the  Parent, 

And  wander  in  ways  unknown. 

Oh,  the  paths  are  rough  and  thorny, 

And  I know  they  cannot  stand. 

They  will  faint  and  fall  by  the  wayside, 

Unguided  by  God’s  right  hand. 

And  I think  of  the  souls  that  are  yearning 
To  follow  the  good  and  true  ; 

That  are  striving  to  live  unsullied, 

Yet  know  not  what  to  do. 

And  I wonder  when  God,  the  Master, 

Shall  end  this  weary  strife, 

And  lead  us  out  of  the  shadows 
Into  the  deathless  life. 

1869. 


ONLY  A KISS. 

Once,  when  the  summer  lay  on  the  hilltops, 
And  the  sunshine  fell  like  a golden  flame, 
Out  from  the  city’s  dust  and  turmoil 
A gallant,  fair-faced  stranger  came — 

Came  to  rest  in  our  humble  cottage 

Till  the  winds  of  autumn  should  blow  again, 


SHELLS. 


55 


To  walk  in  the  meadow  and  lie  by  the  brooklet, 

And  woo  back  the  strength,  that  the  town  had  slain. 

I was  young,  with  the  foolish  heart  of  a maiden 

That  had  never  been  wooed,  and  the  stranger  bland 

Awoke  that  heart  from  its  idle  dreaming, 

And  swept  the  strings  with  a master-hand. 

I remember  the  thrill,  and  the  first  wild  tremor, 

That  stirred  its  depths  with  a sweet  surprise, 

When  I glanced  one  day  at  the  handsome  stranger, 
And  caught  th  e gaze  of  his  deep,  dark  eyes. 

My  cheek  grew  red  with  its  tell-tale  blushes, 

And  the  knitting  dropped  from  my  nerveless  grasp  ; 

He  stooped,  and  then,  as  he  gracefully  gave  it, 

He  held  my  hand  in  a loving  clasp ; 

We  said  no  word,  but  he  knew  my  secret, 

He  read  what  lay  in  my  maiden  heart, 

No  vain  concealing  was  needed  longer 
To  hide  the  tremor  his  voice  would  start. 

We  walked  in  the  meadow  and  by  the  brooklet, 

My  sun-browned  hand  in  his  snowy  palm  ; 

He  said  my  blushes  would  shame  the  roses, 

And  my  heart  stood  still  in  a blissful  calm. 

He  stroked  my  tresses,  my  raven  ringlets, 

And  twined  them  over  his  finger  fair  ; 

My  eyes’  dark  splendor  was  full  of  danger, 

He  said,  for  Cupid  was  lurking  there. 


56 


SHELLS . 


And  once  he  held  me  close  to  his  bosom, 

And  pressed  on  my  lips  a loving  kiss  ; 

Oh  ! how  I tremble  with  shame  and  anger, 

Even  now,  as  I think  of  this— 

But  in  that  moment  I thought  that  heaven 
Had  suddenly  opened  and  drawn  me  in, 

And  kissed  with  passion  the  lips,  so  near  me, 

Nor  dreamed  I was  staining  my  soul  with  sin. 

But  there  came  a letter  one  quiet  evening 

To  the  man  who  was  dearer  to  me  than  life — 

“ A picture,”  he  said,  as  he  tore  it  open, 

“ Look,  sweet  friend,  at  my  fair  young  wife.” 

A terrible  anguish,  a seething  anger, 

Heaved  my  bosom  and  blanched  my  cheek, 

And  he  who  stood  there  holding  the  letter, 

He  watched  me  smiling,  but  did  not  speak. 

I took  the  picture  and  gazed  upon  it — 

A sweet  young  creature  with  sunny  hair 
And  eyes  of  blue.  “May  the  good  Lord  keep  you,” 
I said  aloud,  “ in  his  tender  care — 

You  who  are  wedded  and  bound  forever 
Unto  this  man,”  and  I met  his  eyes — 

“ This  soulless  villain,  this  shameless  coward, 

Whose  heart  is  blackened  with  acted  lies.” 

My  heart  swelled  full  of  a terrible  hatred, 

And  something  of  murder  was  burning  there, 


SHELLS. 


57 


But  a better  feeling  stole  in  behind  it 

As  I looked  on  the  picture  sweet  and  fair  ; 

I turned  and  left  him,  and  never  saw  him — 

Never  looked  on  his  face  again, 

And  time  has  tempered  my  shame  and  sorrow, 

And  soothed  and  quieted  down  my  pain. 

But  I always  tremble,  in  awful  anger, 

That  wears  and  worries  my  waning  life, 

When  I think  how  he  clasped  me  close  to  his  bosom, 
He — with  a lawfully  wedded  wife. 

When  I think  how  I answered  his  fond  caresses, 

And  clung  to  his  neck  in  a trance  of  bliss, 

And  the  tears  of  a life  time  and  all  my  sorrow, 

Can  never  remove  the  stain  of  his  kiss. 

1869. 


WHEN  I AM  BEAD. 

When  I am  dead,  if  some  chastened  one, 
Seeing  the  “item,”  or  hearing  it  said 
That  my  play  is  over,  and  my  part  done, 
And  I lie  asleep  in  my  narrow  bed — 

If  I could  know  that  some  soul  wou.ld  say, 
Speaking  aloud  or  silently, 

“In  the  heat,  and  burden  of  the  day, 

She  gave  a refreshing  draught  to  me  •” 


58 


SHELLS . 


Or,  “when  I was  lying  nigh  unto  death, 

She  nursed  me  to  life,  and  to  strength  again, 

And  when  I labored  and  struggled  for  breath, 

She  soothed  and  quieted  down  my  pain 
Or,  “when  I was  groping  in  grief  and  doubt, 

Lost,  and  turned  from  the  light  o’  the  day, 

Her  hand  reached  me  and  helped  me  out, 

And  led  me  up  to  the  better  way 

Or,  “when  I was  hated  and  shunned  by  all, 

Bowing  under  my  sin  and  my  shame, 

She,  once,  in  passing  me  by,  let  fall 
Words  of  pity  and  hope  that  came 
Into  my  heart,  like  a blessed  calm 
Over  the  waves  of  the  stormy  sea, 

Words  of  comfort  like  oil  and  balm, 

She  spake,  and  the  desert  blossomed  for  me 

Better  by  far,  than  a marble  tomb — 

Than  a monument  towering  over  my  head ; 

(What  shall  I care,  in  my  quiet  room, 

For  head  board  or  foot  board,  when  I am  dead) 
Better  than  glory,  or  honors,  or  fame, 

(Though  I am  striving  for  those  to-day) 

To  know  that  some  heart  will  cherish  my  name, 

And  think  of  me  kindly,  with  blessings,  alway. 

1870. 


SHELLS. 


59 


D ON ’ 7 TALK  WHEN  YO  U VE  NO  THING  TO 
SAY 

It  is  well  to  be  free  in  conversing, 

It  is  well  to  be  able  to  chat 

With  a friend  on  a subject  of  interest — 

With  a stranger  on  this  thing  or  that. 

Don’t  aim  to  be  cold  or  reticent, 

But  listen  to  reason  I pray, 

And  remember  this  wisest  of  mottos, 

“Don’t  talk  when  you’ve  nothing  to  say.” 

A gay,  lively  friend,  or  companion, 

With  wits  that  are  ready  and  quick, 

Is  better  by  far,  than  a stupid, 

And  unconversational  stick. 

Yet  speech  at  the  best  is  but  silver, 

While  silence  is  golden  alway. 

And  remember  at  all  times  and  places, 

Don’t  talk  when  you’ve  nothing  to  say. 

I like  to  see  well  informed  people 

Who  know  what  to  say,  how  and  when. 

And  a little  good  nonsense  and  jesting 
Is  not  out  of  place,  now  and  then. 

But  I dread  the  approach  of  a Magpie, 

Who  chatters  from  grave  themes  to  gay, 

Who  talks  from  the  morn  to  the  midnight, 

And  always  with  nothing  to  say. 


1871. 


60 


SHELLS. 


THE  FR  OST  FAIR  X 

All  day  the  trees  were  moaning 
For  the  leaves  that  they  had  lost, 

All  day  they  creaked  and  trembled, 

And  the  naked  branches  tossed 
And  shivered  in  the  north  wind 
As  he  hurried  up  and  down, 

Over  hill-tops  bleak  and  cheerless, 

Over  meadows  bare  and  brown. 

“Oh  my  green  and  tender  leaflets. 

Oh  my  fair  buds,  lost  and  gone  !” 

So  they  moaned  through  all  the  daytime, 
So  they  groaned  till  night  came  on. 
And  the  hoar-frost  lurked  and  listened 
To  the  wailing,  sad  refrain, 

And  he  whispered,  “wait— be  patient — 

I will  cover  you  again  ; 

I will  deck  you  in  new  garments — 

I will  clothe  you  ere  the  light, 

In  a sheen  of  spotless  glory — 

In  a robe  of  purest  white. 

You  shall  wear  the  matchless  mantle, 
That  the  good  Frost  Fairy  weaves.” 
And  the  bare  trees  listened,  wondered, 
And  forgot  their  fallen  leaves. 


SHELLS. 


61 


And  the  quaint  and  silent  fairy, 

Backward,  forward,  through  the  gloom, 

Wove  the  matchless,  glittering  mantle, 

Spun  the  frost-thread  on  her  loom. 

And  the  bare  trees  talked  together, 

Talked  in  whispers  soft  and  low, 

As  the  good  and  silent  fairy 
Moved  her  shuttle  to  and  fro. 

And  lo  ! when  the  golden  glory 
Of  the  morning  crept  abroad, 

All  the  trees  were  clothed  in  grandeur, 

All  the  twiglets  robed,  and  shod 
With  matchless,  spotless  garments, 

That  the  sunshine  decked  with  gems, 

And  the  trees  forgot  their  sorrow, 

’Neath  their  robes  and  diadems. 

1871. 


FL  ORABELLE. 

Did  you  see  Florabelle  ? has  she  passed  you  this  morn- 
ing ? 

A tall,  slender  Maiden,  with  hair  like  spun  gold. 

She  has  ? then  I pray  you,  dear  sir,  heed  my  warning, 

It  is  just  the  old,  oft  rehearsed  story  re-told  : 


SHELLS. 


02 


Florabelle  is  a jilt — a coquette — a deceiver. 

She  angles  for  hearts,  with  soft  words  and  sweet  smiles. 
Forewarned  is  forearmed,  don’t  you  trust  or  believe  her, 
Be  deaf  to  her  cooing,  be  blind  to  her  wiles. 

She  has  eyes,  like  the  heart  of  a blue  morning  glory, 

She  has  lips  like  a rose-bud  just  sprinkled  with  dew, 
’Tis  the  old  hackneyed  tale,  ’tis  the  same  wretched  story, 
A woman  all  fair,  yet  all  false,  and  untrue. 

With  her  soft  silken  hair,  in  its  meshes  and  tangles, 

With  her  pink  and  white  cheek,  and  her  full  ruby  lips, 
With  her  eyes  shining  clear,  like  the  heavens  bright 
sparkles, 

She  has  wrecked  as  strong  hearts  as  the  ocean  has 
ships. 

Those  blue  eyes  are  ever  on  watch  for  a stranger; 

She  thirsts  for  fresh  conquests,  and  she  has  marked 
you, 

I warn  you,  my  friend,  that  your  peace  is  in  danger, 

Take  heed,  lest  the  day  that  you  met  her,  you  rue. 

Don’t  bask  in  her  smiles,  for  one  moment,  but  leave 
her, 

Before  you’re  entangled,  and  find  it  too  late. 

Florabelle  is  a jilt — a coquet — a deceiver, 

I have  given  you  warning  ! now  choose  your  own  fate  ! 

1871. 


SHELLS . 


63 


THE  DOOMED  CITY S PRAYER. 

(After  the  Burning  of  Chicago.) 

I heard  a low  sound,  like  a troubled  soul  praying  : 

And  the  winds  of  the  winter  night  brought  it  to  me. 
Twas  the  doomed  city’s  voice  : “Oh,  kind  snow,”  it  was 
saying, 

“Come,  cover  my  ruins,  so  ghastly  to  see, 

I am  robbed  of  my  beauty,  and  shorn  of  my  glory ; 

And  the  strength  that  I boasted — where  is  it  to-day  ? 

I am  down  in  the  dust ; and  my  pitiful  story 
Make  tearless  eyes  weep,  and  impious  lips  pray. 

“I — I,  who  have  reveled  in  pomp  and  in  power, 

Am  down  on  my  knees,  with  my  face  in  the  dust. 

But  yesterday  queen,  with  a queen’s  royal  dower, 

To-day  I am  glad  of  a crumb  or  a crust. 

But  yesterday  reigning,  a grand  mighty  city, 

The  pride  of  the  nation,  the  queen  of  the  West; 

To-day  I am  gazed  at,  an  object  of  pity, 

A charity  child,  asking  alms,  at  the  best. 

“My  strength,  and  my  pride,  and  my  glory  departed, 

My  fair  features  scorched  by  the  fire  fiends  breath,  > 

Is  it  strange  that  I’m  soul-sick  and  sorrowful  hearted  ? 

Is  it  strange  that  my  thoughts  run  on  ruin  and  death  ? 
Oh,  white,  fleecy  clouds  that  are  drooping  above  me, 
Hark,  hark  to  my  pleadings,  and  answer  my  sighs, 


64 


SHELLS. 


And  let  down  the  beautiful  snow,  if  you  love  me, 

To  cover  my  wounds  from  all  pitying  eyes. 

“ I am  hurled  from  my  throne,  but  not  hurled  down  for- 
ever, 

I shall  rise  from  the  dust,  I shall  live  down  my  woes — 
But  my  heart  lies  to-day,  like  a dumb,  frozen  river ; 

When  to  thaw  out  and  flow  again,  God  only  knows. 
Oh,  sprites  of  the  air!  I beseech  you  to  weave  me 
A mantle  of  white  snow,  and  beautiful  rime 
To  cover  my  unsightly  ruins  ; then  leave  me 

In  the  hands  of  the  healer  of  all  wounds — ‘Old 
Time.’  ” 

November,  1871. 


ONE  WOMANS  PLEA . 

Now  God  be  with  the  men  who  stand 
In  Legislative  halls,  to-day. 

Those  chosen  princes  of  our  land — 

May  God  be  with  them  all,  I say, 

And  may  His  wisdom,  guide,  and  shield  them, 
For  mighty  is  the  trust  we  yield  them. 

Oh  men  ! who  hold  a people’s  fate, 

There  in  the  hollow  of  your  hand. 

Each  word  you  utter,  soon,  or  late, 


SHELLS. 


65 


Shall  leave  its  impress  on  our  land, — 

Forth  from  the  halls  of  legislation, 

Shall  speed  its  way,  through  all  the  Nation. 

Then  may  The  Source  of  Truth,  and  Light, 
Be  ever  o’er  you,  ever  near. 

And  may  He  guide  each  word  aright ; 

May  no  false  precept,  greet  the  ear, 

No  selfish  love,  for  purse,  or  faction, 

Stay  Justices'  hand,  or  guide  one  action. 

And  may  no  one,  among  these  men 
Lift  to  his  lips,  the  damning  glass, 

Let  no  man  say,  with  truth,  again, 

What  has  been  said,  in  truth,  alas, 

“Men  drink,  in  halls  of  legislation — 

Why  shouldn’t  we,  of  lower  station  !” 

Oh  men  ! you  see,  you  hear  this  beast, 

This  fiend  that  pillages  the  earth, 

Whose  work  is  death — whose  hourly  feast, 

Is  noble  souls,  and  minds  of  worth — 

You  see — and  if  you  will  not  chain  him, 

Nor  reach  one  hand  forth,  to  detain  him, 

For  God’s  sake,  do  not  give  him  aid, 

Nor  urge  him  onward.  Oh  to  me, 

It  seems  so  strange  that  laws  are  made 


66 


SHELLS . 


To  crush  all  other  crimes,  while  he 
Who  bears  down  through  Hell’s  gaping  portals 
The  countless  souls,  of  rum  wrecked  mortals, 

Is  left  to  wander,  to,  and  fro, 

In  perfect  freedom  through  the  land. 

And  those  who  ought  to  see,  and  know, 

Will  lift  no  warning  voice,  or  hand. 

Oh  men  in  halls  of  legislation, 

Rise  to  the  combat,  save  the  Nation  ! 

January,  1871. 


DE  CORA  TION  POEM. 

Gather  them  out  of  the  valley — 

Bring  them  from  moorland  and  hill, 

And  cast  them  in  wreaths  and  in  garlands, 

On  the  city  so  silent  and  still — 

So  voiceless,  so  silent,  and  still  ; 

Where  neighbor  speaks  never  to  neighbor, 

Where  the  song  of  the  bird,  and  the  brown  bee 
heard, 

But  never  the  harsh  sounds  of  labor. 

Bring  them  frorrV  woodland  and  meadow — 

As  fresh,  and  as  fair,  as  can  be. 

Bring  them,  all  kinds,  and  all  colors, 


SHELLS . 


67 


That  grow  upon  upland  and  lea — 

That  spring  in  wild  grace  on  the  lea. 

And  rifle  the  green  earth’s  warm  bosom 

Of  each  flower,  and  blow,  till  “ God’s  acre”  shall  glow 
And  bloom,  like  a garden  in  blossom. 

Bring  them  from  vase,  and  from  hot-house, 

And  strew  them  with  bountiful  hand. 

There  is  nothing  too  rare  for  the  soldier, 

Who  laid  down  his  life  for  his  land — 

Who  laid  down  all  things  for  his  land ; 

And  turned  to  the  duty  before  him, 

And  how  now  can  we  prove,  our  thanks  and  our  love 
But  by  casting  these  May  blossoms  o’er  him. 

We  know  they  will  soon  fade,  and  wither— 

We  know  they  will  soon  droop,  and  die ; 

But  one  time,  I read,  how  an  angel 

Came  down  from  the  mansions  on  high — 

In  the  night,  from  God’s  kingdom  on  high — 

Came  down  where  a poor  faded  flower 

Lay  crushed  by  rude  feet,  in  the  dust  of  the  street, 

And  he  carried  it  up  to  God’s  bower ; 

And  laid  it  before  the  Good  Master, 

Who  kissed  it,  and  passed  it  to  Christ, 

On  the  throne  at  His  side  ; and  He  kissed  it, 

And  the  touch  of  those  kisses  sufficed — 

The  caress  of  the  God-head  sufficed — 


68 


SHELLS. 


And  it  bloomed  out  in  wonderful  splendor, 

A thing  of  delight,  and  most  fair  in  God’s  sight — 
’Tis  a fable,  I know  ; but  so  tender ; 

So  sweet  that  I like  to  believe  it — 

And  I have  been  thinking,  to-day, 

That  mayhap  these  soldiers,  now  angels, 

Will  come,  when  these  wreathes  fade  away — 
When  they  wither,  and  shrivel  away — 

And  will  bear  the  crushed  things  up  to  heaven, 

And  God,  and  His  Son.  will  kiss  them,  each  one, 
And  new  beauty,  and  bloom  will  be  given. 


And  odd  fancy,  perhaps,  yet  dispute  it, 

And  prove  it  untrue  if  you  can. 

There  are  strange,  subtle  ways,  in  God’s  workings 
Now  veiled  from  the  knowledge  of  man, 

Shut  out  from  the  vision  of  man. — 

By  a dark  veil  of  deep,  mortal  blindness ; 

But  when  God  deems  it  right,  He  will  give  us  our 
sight, 

And  remove  the  thick  veil,  in  His  kindness ; 

And  when  we  have  entered  His  kingdom, 

And  all  his  strange  ways  understand, 

Who  knows  but  these  very  same  flowers, 

We  shall  find  there  abloom,  in  His  land, 

All  fresh,  and  all  fair,  in  His  land ; 


SHELLS. 


G9 


And  these  soldiers,  who  went  on  before  us, 

As  we  wander  and  stray,  through  God’s  gardens,  shall 
say  : 

“ These  are  the  wreathes  you  cast  o’er  us.” 

Then,  strew  ye  the  best,  and  the  brightest 
Of  buds,  and  of  blossoms  full  blowji, 

Over  the  graves,  of  the  loved  ones — 

Over  those  labelled  “Unknown  !” 

Oh  ! the  pathos  of  that  word,  “Unknown  !” 

Bring  hither  the  brightest,  and  rarest  ! 

We  reck  not,  if  the  clay,  wore  the  blue  garb,  or  gray  ! 
We  will  give  them  the  best,  and  the  fairest. 

For  somebody  mourned  for  the  “missing,” 

And  wept  for  them  hot,  scalding  tears, 

And  hoped  against  hope,  for  their  coming ; 

And  watched,  and  waited,  months  and  years, 

Such  long,  and  such  desolate  years  ! 

But  the  hearts  are  so  patient,  that  love  them, 

And  some  now  watch  and  weep,  for  the  soldiers  who 
sleep 

With  the  slab  labeled  “ Unknown”  above  them. 

Then  gather  from  meadow,  and  woodland, 

From  garden,  and  hot-house,  and  vase, 

The  brightest  and  choicest  of  blossoms, 

And  scatter  them  here  in  this  place ; 

This  holy  and  hallowed  place  — 


TO 


SHELLS . 


This  city  of  rest,  not  of  labor, 

Where  only  the  bird,  and  th’  brown  bee  is  heard, 
And  neighbor,  speaks  never  to  neighbor. 

Forest  Hill  Cemetery,  May  30,  1871. 


A BAB  Y IN  THE  HO  USE . 

I knew  that  a baby  was  hid  in  that  house, 

Though  I saw  no  cradle,  and  heard  no  cry, 

But  the  husband  went  tiptoeing  ’round  like  a mouse, 
And  the  good  wife  was  humming  a soft  lullaby ; 

And  there  was  a look  on  the  face  of  that  mother 
That  I knew  could  mean  only  one  thing,  and  no  other. 

“The  mother ,”  I said  to  myself ; for  I knew 
That  the  woman  before  me  was  certainly  that, 

For  there  lay  in  the  corner  a tiny  cloth  shoe, 

And  I saw  on  a stand  such  a wee  little  hat ; 

And  the  beard  of  the  husband  said  plain  as  could  be, 
“Two  fat,  chubby  hands  have  been  tugging  at  me.” 

And  he  took  from  his  pocket  a gay  picture  book. 

And  a dog  that  would  bark  if  you  pulled  on  a string 
And  the  wife  laid  them  up  with  such  a pleased  look ; 
And  I said  to  myself,  “There  is  no  other  thing 


SHELLS. 


71 


But  a babe  that  could  bring  about  all  this,  and  so 
That  one  is  in  hiding  here  somewhere,  I know.” 

I stayed  but  a moment,  and  saw  nothing  more, 

And  heard  not  a sound,  yet  I knew  I was  right ; 
What  else  could  the  shoe  mean  that  lay  on  the  floor — 
The  book  and  the  toy,  and  the  faces  so  bright  ? 

And  what  made  the  husband  as  still  as  a mouse  ? 

I am  sure,  very  sure,  there’s  a babe  in  that  house. 

1872. 


POEM. 

[Read  at  the  Reunion  of  the  Society  of  the  “Grand  Army  of  the 
Tennessee,”  at  Madison,  Wisconsin,  July  4th,  1872.] 

After  the  battles  are  over, 

And  the  war  drums  cease  to  beat, 

And  no  more  is  heard  on  the  hillside 
The  sound  of  hurrying  feet, 

Full  many  a noble  action, 

That  was  done  in  the  days  of  strife, 

By  the  soldier  is  half  forgotten, 

In  the  peaceful  walks  of  life. 

Just  as  the  tangled  grasses, 

In  summer’s  warmth  and  light, 

Grow  over  the  graves  of  the  fallen 


72 


SHELLS. 


And  hide  them  away  from  sight, 

So  many  an  act  of  valor, 

And  many  a deed  sublime, 

Fades  from  the  mind  of  the  soldier, 
O’ergrown  by  the  grass  of  time. 

Not  so  should  they  be  rewarded, 

Those  noble  deeds  of  old  ; 

They  should  live  forever  and  ever, 

When  the  heroes’  hearts  are  cold. 

Then  rally,  ye  brave  old  comrades, 

Old  veterans,  re-unite  ! 

Up  root  time’s  tangled  grasses — 

Live  over  the  march,  and  the  fight. 

Let  Grant  come  up  from  the  White  House, 
And  clasp  each  brother’s  hand, 

First  chieftain  of  the  army, 

Last  chieftain  of  the  land. 

Let  him  rest  from  a nation’s  burdens, 

And  go,  in  thought,  with  his  men, 

Through  the  fire  and  smoke  of  Shiloh, 

And  save  the  day  again. 

This  silent  hero  of  battles, 

Knew  no  such  word  as  defeat. 

It  was  left  for  the  rebels  learning, 

Along  with  the  word  retreat. 

He  was  not  given  to  talking, 


SHELLS . 


73 


But  he  found  that  guns  would  preach 
In  a way  that  was  more  convincing 
Than  fine  and  flowery  speech. 

Three  cheers  for  the  grave  commander 
Of  the  grand  old  Tennessee  ! 

Who  won  the  first  great  battle — 
Gained  the  first  great  victory. 

His  motto  was  always  “Conquer,” 
“Success”  was  his  countersign, 

And  “though  it  took  all  summer,” 

He  kept  fighting  upon  “that  line.” 


Let  Sherman,  the  stern  old  General, 

Respond  to  the  reveille, 

Let  him  march  with  his  boys  through  Georgia, 
From  “Atlanta  down  to  the  sea.” 

Oh,  that  grand  old  tramp  to  Savannah ! 

Three  hundred  miles  to  the  coast  ! 

It  will  live  in  the  heart  of  the  Nation, 

Forever  its  pride  and  boast. 

As  Sheridan  went  to  the  battle, 

When  a score  of  miles  away, 

*He  has  come  to  the  feast  and  banquet, 

By  the  iron  horse  to-day. 

Its  space  is  not  much  swifter 

Than  the  pace  of  that  famous  steed 


74 


SHELLS. 


That  bore  him  down  to  the  contest 
And  saved  the  day  by  his  speed. 

Then  go  over  the  ground  to-day,  boys, 
Tread  each  remembered  spot. 

It  will  be  a gleesome  journey, 

On  the  swift-shod  feet  of  thought ; 

You  can  fight  a bloodless  battle, 

You  can  skirmish  along  the  route, 

But  it’s  not  worth  while  to  forage, 

There  are  rations  enough  without. 

Don’t  start  if  you  hear  the  cannon ; 

It  is  not  the  sound  of  doom, 

It  does  not  call  to  the  contest — 

To  the  battle’s  smoke  and  gloom. 

“Let  us  have  Peace,”  was  spoken, 

And  lo  ! peace  ruled  again  ; 

And  now  the  nation  is  shouting, 

Through  the  cannon’s  voice,  “Amen.” 

Oh,  boys,  who  besieged  old  Vicksburg, 
Can  time  e’er  wash  away 

The  triumph  of  her  surrender, 

Nine  years  ago  to-day  ? 

Can  you  ever  forget  the  moment, 

When  you  saw  that  flag  of  white, 

That  told  how  the  grim  old  city 
I lad  fallen  in  her  might  ? 


SHELLS. 


75 


Ah,  ’twas  a bold,  brave  army, 

When  the  boys  with  a right  good  will, 
Went  gayly  marching  and  singing 
To  the  fight  at  Champion  Hill. 

They  met  with  a warm  reception, 

But  the  soul  of  “Old  John  Brown” 
Was  abroad  on  that  field  of  battle, 

And  our  flag  did  not  go  down. 

Come,  heroes  of  Look  Out  Mountain, 
Of  Corinth  and  Donelson, 

Of  Kenesaw  and  Atlanta, 

And  tell  how  the  day  was  won  ! 

Hush  ! bow  the  head  for  a moment — 
There  are  those  who  cannot  come. 

No  bugle  call  can  arouse  them — 

No  sound  of  fife,  or  drum. 

McPherson  fell  in  the  battle, 

When  its  waves  were  surging  high, 
Brave  Ransom  sank  by  the  wayside  ; 

’Twas  a lonely  death  to  die. 

They  walk  God’s  fair,  green  meadows, 
They  dwell  in  a land  of  bliss,  • 

Yet  I think  their  spirits  are  with  us 
In  such  an  hour  as  this. 

Oh,  boys  who  died  for  the  country, 

Oh,  dear  and  sainted  dead  ! 


76 


SHELLS . 


What  can  we  say  about  you 
That  has  not  once  been  said  ? 
Whether  you  fell  in  the  contest. 

Struck  down  by  shot  and  shell, 

Or  pined  ’neath  the  hand  of  sickness, 
Or  starved  in  the  prison  cell — 

We  know  that  you  died  for  Freedom, 
To  save  our  land  from  shame, 

To  rescue  a periled  Nation, 

And  we  give  you  deathless  fame. 
’Twas  the  cause  of  Truth  and  Justice 
That  you  fought  and  perished  for, 
And  we  say  it,  oh,  so  gently, 

“Our  boys  who  died  in  the  war.” 

Saviours  of  our  Republic, 

Heroes  who  wore  the  blue, 

We  owe  the  peace  that  surrounds  us — 
And  our  Nation’s  strength,  to  you. 
We  owe  it  to  you  that  our  banner, 

The  fairest  flag  in  the  world 
Is  to-day  unstained,  unsullied, 

On  the  summer  air  unfurled. 

We  look  on  its  stripes  and  spangles, 
And  our  hearts  are  filled  the  while 
With  love  for  the  brave  commanders, 
And  the  boys  of  the  rank  and  file. 


SHELLS. 


The  grandest  deeds  of  valor, 

Were  never  written  out, 

The  noblest  acts  of  virtue, 

The  world  knows  nothing  about. 

And  many  a private  soldier, 

Who  walks  his  humble  way, 

With  no  sounding  name  or  title, 
Unknown  to  the  world  to-day, 

In  the  eyes  of  God  is  a hero  ; 

All  such  he  will  reward, 

No  deed  however  secret, 

Is  hidden  from  the  Lord. 

Brave  men  of  a mighty  army, 

We  extend  you  friendships  hand  ! 

I speak  for  the  “Loyal  Women,” 

Those  pillars  of  our  land. 

We  wish  you  a hearty  welcome, 

We  are  proud  that  you  gather  here 
To  talk  of  old  times  together 

On  this  brightest  day  in  the  year. 

And  if  peace,  whose  snow  white  pinions, 
Brood  over  our  land  to-day, 

Should  ever  again  go  from  us, 

(God  grant  she  may  ever  stay). 
Should  our  Nation  call  in  her  peril 
For  “Six  hundred  thousand  more,” 


78 


SHELLS. 


The  loyal  women  would  hear  her, 
And  send  you  out  as  before. 


We  would  bring  out  the  treasured  knapsack. 

We  would  take  the  sword  from  the  wall, 

And  hushing  our  own  heart’s  pleadings, 

Hear  only  the  country’s  call. 

For  next  to  our  God,  is  our  Nation  : 

And  we  cherish  the  honored  name, 

Of  the  bravestof  all  brave  armies 
Who  fought  for  that  Nation’s  fame. 

* This  stanza  was  written  after  arriving  at  the  hall,  and  finding 
Sheridan  among  the  Generals  present,  whicli  may  serve  as  an  explan- 
ation for  the  change  of  tense  in  that  verse.  Not  knowing  that  General 
Sheridan  was  a member  of  the  Society,  no  mention  had  been  made  of 
hjm  when  the  poem  was  written. 


THE  PEOPLE1  S EA  VO RITE. 

[A  tribute  to  Ex-Governor  Fairchild.] 

God  bless  the  hero  of  my  song  ! 

Six  years  the  chieftain  of  our  State  ! 

We’ve  held  him,  in  our  hearts,  so  long, 

And  proved  him  good,  and  true,  and  great. 
That  now,  we  could  not  let  him  go, 

Fven  if  he  would  have  it  so. 

I hear  the  praises  of  his  name 

From  east  and  west,  and  north  and  south, 


SHELLS. 


79 


His  foes  are  silenced  from  sheer  shame  : 

His  deeds  have  silenced  Slander’s  mouth, 
And  all  the  little  imps  of  spite 
He’s  crushed  beneath  the  heel  of  Right. 

He  dropped  an  arm  one  bloody  day, 

In  beating  down  the  walls  of  wrong, 

But  no  strength  went  with  it  away ; 

His  other  grew  full  thrice  as  strong. 

Few  men,  with  their  two  hands,  have  done 
As  noble  deeds  as  he  with  one. 

His  soul  speaks  through  his  eye  of  blue, 

And  all  men  know  him  one  to  trust, 
Because  his  heart  is  kind  and  true, 

And  all  his  actions  prove  him  just. 

I speak  for  thousands  when  I cry, 

“ The  people’s  favorite  for  aye  !” 

May  God  be  with  him  all  his  days — 

With  him  and  all  he  holds  most  dear ; 
And  if  my  little  song  of  praise 

Should  chance  to  fall  upon  his  ear, 

■ May  he  accept  the  offering, 

And  know  that  from  my  heart  I sing. 


1872. 


80 


SHELLS. 


DREAM-  TIME. 

Throughout  these  mellow  autumn  days, 
All  sweet  and  dim,  and  soft  with  haze, 

I argue  with  my  unwise  heart, 

That  fain  would  choose  the  idler’s  part. 

My  heart  says,  “ Let  us  lie  and  dream 
Under  the  sunshine’s  softened  beam. 

This  is  the  dream-time  of  the  year, 

When  Heaven  itself  seems  bending  near. 

See  how  the  calm  still  waters  lie 
And  dream  beneath  the  arching  sky. 

The  sun  draws  on  a veil  of  haze, 

And  dreams  away  these  golden  days. 

Put  by  the  pen — lay  thought  aside, 

And  cease  to  battle  with  the  tide, 

Let  us,  like  Nature,  rest  and  dream 
And  float  with  th’  current  of  the  stream.” 

So  pleads  my  heart.  I answer  “Nay, 
Work  waits  for  you  and  me  to-day. 
Behind  these  autumn  hours  of  gold, 

The  winter  lingers,  bleak  and  cold. 


SHELLS. 


81 


And  those  who  dream  too  long  or  much, 

Must  waken,  shivering,  at  his  touch, 

With  naught  to  show  for  vanished  hours, 

But  dust  of  dreams  and  withered  flowers. 

So  now,  while  days  are  soft  and  warm, 

We  must  make  ready  for  the  storm.” 

Thus,  through  the  golden,  hazy  weather, 

My  heart  and  I converse  together. 

And  yet,  I dare  not  turn  my  eyes 
To  pebbly  shores  or  tender  skies, 

Because  I am  so  fain  to  do 

E’en  as  my  heart  pleads  with  me  to. 

October,  1872. 


LINES  WRITTEN  UPON  THE  DEATH  OE 
JAMES  BUELL. 

Something  is  missing  from  the  balmy  spring. 

There  is  no  perfume  in  its  gentle  breath ; 

And  there  are  sobs  in  songs  the  wild  birds  sing, 

And  all  the  bees  chant  of  the  grave  and  death. 
Something  is  missing  from  the  earth.  One  morn 
The  angels  called  a new  name  on  the  roll ; 

A spirit  soldier  to  their  ranks  was  borne, 

And  all  Christ’s  army  welcomed  the  pure  young  soul. 
6 


82 


SHELLS . 


He  died.  Two  little  words,  but  only  God 
Can  understand  the  awful  depths  of  woe 
They  hold  for  those  who  pass  beneath  the  rod, 

Praying  for  strength,  from  Him  who  aimed  the  blow. 
He  died.  The  soldier  who  fought  long  and  well, 

Who  walked  with  Death  upon  the  battle-field, 
Among  the  bellowing  guns — the  shrieking  shell — 

In  poison  prison  dens — and  would  not  yield. 

A six  month  three  times  told,  he  languished  there, 

And  yet  he  lived;  oh,  young  heart,  strong  and  brave! 
Thank  God,  who  heard  the  oft  repeated  prayer ; 

Thank  God,  he  does  not  fill  a Southern  grave ; 

That  when  he  died,  the  loved  ones  gathered  round, 
And  eased  the  anguish  of  those  last,  sad  hours. 

That  gentle  hands  can  keep  the  precious  mound 
All  green  with  mosses,  and  abloom  with  flowers. 

He  was  so  young  and  fair  ; and  life  was  sweet. 

Christ  give  the  mourners  strength  to  drain  the  cup  ! 
He  went  to  make  the  Heavenly  ranks  complete, 

God  sent  the  angel  Death,  to  bear  him  up. 

So  young,  and  fair  and  brave ; beloved  by  all ; 

The  lisping  child — life’s  veteran,  bent  and  gray — 
And  eyes  grow  dim,  and  bitter  tear-drops  fall 
Upon  the  mound  where  lies  the  soldier’s  clay. 

Oh  ! it  is  sweet  to  feel  that  God  knows  best, 

Who  called  in  youth  this  brother,  friend  and  son, 


SHELLS. 


83 


And  sweet  to  lean  upon  the  Saviour’s  breast, 

And  looking  upward,  say,  “ Thy  will  be  done.” 
But  something  is  missing  from  the  balmy  spring ; 

There  is  no  perfume  in  its  gentle  breath, 

And  there  are  sobs  in  songs  the  wild  birds  sing, 
And  all  the  bees  chant  of  the  grave,  and  death. 


UNDER  THE  WILLOW. 

Under  the  willow,  you  and  I 

Walked  in  the  gloaming,  when  love  ran  high  ; 

That  wild  first  love,  that  was  almost  pain, 

That  we  never  on  earth  can  know  again. 

The  winds  were  soft,  and  the  night  was  calm ; 
You  held  my  hand  in  your  throbbing  palm. 
With  the  fire  of  passion  your  dark  eyes  glowed, 
And  the  tide  of  my  pulses  madly  flowed. 

You  drew  me  closely  against  your  side — 

You  asked  me  softly  to  be  your  bride. 

I trembled,  and  flushed,  and  could  not  speak, 
But  you  knew  my  answer,  and  kissed  my  cheek. 

When  earth  has  perished,  and  time  is  dead, 
Our  love  will  still  live  on,”  we  said. 


84 


SHELLS. 


“It  shall  have  a steady  and  quenchless  ray, 
Though  youth  and  strength,  and  life  decay.” 

The  night-bird  warbled  a song  just  then ; 

It  sounded  to  us  like  a glad  amen, 

As  we  built  our  castles,  and  made  our  vows, 
Under  the  willow’s  drooping  boughs. 

Under  the  willows,  to  and  fro 

We  walked  in  the  gloaming,  when  love  ran  low. 

The  tide  had  ebbed,  the  current  dried, 

And  our  wild,  mad  passion  had  slowly  died. 

I know  not  wherefore,  but  widely  apart 
We  had  steadily  drifted,  heart  from  heart. 
Something  invisible  came  between — 

I know  not  what — -it  was  fate,  I ween. 

The  scales  had  dropped  from  our  youthful  eyes, 
And  we  viewed  each  other  in  strange  surprise ; 
And  she  you  deemed  an  angel  before, 

You  found  was  a woman — and  nothing  more. 

And  the  idol  I worshiped  for  gold,  alway, 

I found  was  the  poorest  kind  of  clay. 

And  so  it  perished,  at  one  cold  breath, 

The  passion  we  said  would  live  through  death. 


SHELLS . 


85 


And  under  the  willow  again  we  strayed, 

And  sundered  the  vows  that  once  were  made. 

We  felt  no  sorrow — we  knew  no  woe — 

Since  love  had  perished,  ’twere  better  so. 

We  have  dreamt  our  dream,  we  have  reached  the  end. 
You  said  so  calmly,  “farewell,  my  friend.” 

The  night-bird  uttered  a wailing  cry ; 

It  sounded  to  me  like  a last  good-bye. 

I am  glad  that  we  sundered  our  vows,  that  night. 

My  pathway  is  pleasant,  my  heart  is  light. 

But  I feel,  my  friend,  as  the  days  flow  on, 

That  something  of  youth  from  my  life  is  gone. 

And  never,  on  earth,  can  we  know  again, 

That  first,  mad  passion,  so  near  to  pain, 

When  under  the  willow,  you  and  I 
Walked  in  the  gloaming,  and  love  ran  high. 


DOUBTING, 

Sometimes  we  mortals,  writhing  in  bitter  anguish, 
Crushed  by  great  griefs,  that  seem  too  hard  to  bear, 
And  led  to  doubt  God’s  goodness  and  his  wisdom, 
And  will  not  lift  our  burdened  hearts  in  prayer. 


86 


SHELLS. 


I think  these  moments  are  the  very  darkest, 

The  blackest  and  the  coldest  that  we  know, 

And  I think  God,  and  Christ,  and  all  the  angels, 
Pity  us  most,  in  this  phase  of  our  woe. 

I had  a little  child  I fondly  cherished ; 

A winsome,  playful,  tender-hearted  boy, 

Strong  willed,  yet  gentle,  gay,  yet  mild  and  loving, 
He  was  our  household  idol  and  our  joy. 

We  lavished  on  him  stores  of  pure  affection  ; 

We  gave  him  the  best  love  our  hearts  possessed, 
We  dressed  him  in  rich  robes  of  finest  texture, 

And  gazing  on  him,  felt  this  earth  life-blest. 


We  taught  him  all  things  good,  and  true,  and  noble 
W e told  him  of  the  dear  Lord  crucified  ; 

We  planned  for  him  a bright  and  happy  future ; 

We  guarded  him  from  dangor — yet  he  died. 

Not  all  the  gold  and  riches  we  might  lavish, 

Not  all  our  gold  could  save  him  from  the  tomb. 
He  died  ! and  when  the  sweet  eyes  closed  forever, 
They  shut  the  sunshine  in,  and  left  but  gloom. 

To-day  I saw  a drunkard’s  child — a vagrant  ; 

Ill-clad,  ill-fed,  uncombed,  unwashed,  and  wild  ; 
His  home  the  street — his  lessons  vice  and  sorrow — 
His  garments  rags — his  youthful  lips  defiled 
With  rum,  tobacco,  lies  and  loud  blaspheming ; 


SHELLS. 


87 


What  can  his  future  be,  but  one  of  crime  ? 

And  thinking  of  this,  and  of  my  boy  who  slumbered, 
My  heart  felt  hard,  just  for  a little  time. 

It  seemed  so  strange,  that  he,  a homeless  vagrant, 
Unloved,  unloving,  treading  the  road  to  sin, 

That  he  was  spared  ; and  mine  so  fondly  cherished — 
Mine  so  beloved,  whose  life  seemed  so  twined  in 

And  round  our  heart  strings,  that  when  he  was  taken, 
It  left  them  torn  and  bleeding — he  should  die ; 

Ah  me,  it  seemeth  strange ; and  yet  God’s  wisdom 
I can  not  doubt,  nor  must  I question  why. 

He,  being  all- wise,  Father,  King,  Creator, 

It  would  be  strange,  if  you,  or  I should  know 

All  that  He  knows,  or  understand  His  wisdom, 

All  things  He  does,  or  why  He  does  them  so. 

Were  all  this  plain,  unto  our  mortal  vision, 

There  would  be  nothing  new  to  learn  above; 

So,  though  the  cross  be  great,  and  the  prize  hidden, 

I need  not  doubt  His  wisdom  or  His  love. 

1871. 


AT  SUNSET 

I sit  at  my  cottage  window, 

In  the  light  of  the  sun’s  last  rays, 
And  the  hill-tops  glow  with  splendor, 


88 


SHELLS . 


And  the  west  is  all  ablaze. 

My  room  is  flooded  with  glory, 

My  soul,  with  a wild  delight, 

And  my  heart  is  filled  with  poems, 
That  I can  not  speak,  or  write. 

O,  darker,  and  deeper,  and  grander, 
The  glory  flames  on  high, 

And  I trace  the  walls  of  a city, 

In  that  beautiful  western  sky : 

A city  all  gold  and  crimson — 

All  purple  and  amber  red ; 

And  the  streets  are  paved  with  crystal. 
Where  the  feet  of  angels  tread. 

O,  soulless  pen  and  pencil. 

Thy  efforts  are  weak  and  vain  ; 

The  pen  of  the  poet  falters, 

And  his  heart  is  full  of  pain  : 

And  the  artist  drops  his  pencil, 

And  weeps  in  mute  despair, 

For  he  cannot  paint  the  glory 
That  lies  in  the  sunset  there. 

But  the  city  fadeth — fadeth  ; 

The  glory  turns  to  grey ; 

The  golden  lights  are  dying, 

And  the  splendor  melts  away. 


SHELLS. 


89 


And  I know  it  was  only  the  shadow 
Of  the  city  built  on  high — 

Only  the  poor,  pale  shadow, 

That  I saw  in  the  sunset  sky. 

And  I long  for  that  other  city — 

The  city  that  God  hath  made, 

Where  the  glory  never  paleth, 

And  the  splendors  never  fade. 

O,  there  at  the  feet  of  Jesus, 

In  anthems  of  praise,  I know 
My  soul  shall  utter  the  poems 
That  fill  it  to  overflow. 

1869. 


A TWILIGHT  THOUGHT 

The  sweet  maid,  Day,  has  pillowed  her  head 
On  the  breast  of  her  dusky  lover,  Night ; 
The  sun  has  made  her  a couch  of  red, 

And  woven  a cover  of  dim  twilight ; 

And  the  lover  kisses  the  maiden’s  brow, 

As  low  on  her  couch  she  sleepeth  now. 

Here  at  my  window,  above  the  street, 

I sit,  as  the  day  lies  in  repose ; 

And  I list  to  the  ceaseless  tramp  of  feet. 


90 


SHELLS . 


And  I watch  this  human  tide  that  flows, 
Upward  and  downward,  to  and  fro, 

As  the  waves  of  an  ocean,  ebb  and  flow. 

Over  and  over  the  busy  town, 

Hither  and  thither,  through  all  the  day; 
One  goes  up,  and  another  down — 

Each  in  his  own  alloted  way. 

Strangers  and  kinsmen  pass  and  meet, 
And  jar,  and  jostle  upon  the  street. 

People  that  never  met  before — 

People  that  never  will  meet  again  : 

A careless  glance  of  the  eye — no  more, 
And  both  are  lost  in  the  sea  of  men. 
Strangers,  divided  by  jniles  in  heart, 
Under  my  window  meet  and  part. 

But  whether  their  feet  pass  up,  or  down, 
Over  the  river,  east  or  west, 

Whether  it’s  in  or  out  of  the  town, 

To  a haunt  of  sin,  or  a home  of  rest, 
We  are  journeying  to  a common  goal — 
There  is  one  last  point  for  every  soul. 

Strangers  and  kinsmen,  friend  and  foe, 
Whether  their  aims  are  great  or  small, 
Whether  their  paths  lie  high,  or  low — 


SHELLS. 


91 


There  is  one  last  resting  place  for  all. 

Then  upward,  and  downward,  go  surging  by — 
Under  my  window — you  all  must  die. 

1870. 


TRUE  WARRIORS. 

Not  always  those  who  walk  on  steadily, 

In  the  straight  path,  where  martyr’s  feet  have  trod, 

Whose  raiments  seem  of  spotless  purity, 

Not  always  are  they  most  beloved  of  God. 

Although  he  sees,  and  knows  their  righteousness, 

And  from  his  throne,  with  loving  eyes,  looks  down, 

And  hovers  near,  to  comfort  and  to  bless, 

And  holds  for  each  fair  brow  a starry  crown — 

Yet  there  are  those,  who  sometimes  wander  out 
Into  forbidden  paths  of  sin,  and  grief, 

Who  sometimes  hover  on  the  brink  of  doubt, 

Crying,  “ Oh  God,  help  thou  mine  unbelief !” 

Whose  lives  are  one  long  battle  with  their  sins, 

Who  long  for  righteousness,  yet  cling  to  earth  ; 

And  he  who  battles  thus,  and  battling  wins, 

God  holds,  and  prizes,  as  of  truer  worth. 

For  greater  is  he,  fighting  this  good  fight, 

Falling  repeatedly,  and  prone  to  wrong, 


92 


SHELLS . 


Than  he  who  walketh  calmly  in  the  light, 

And  never  falls,  because  he  i$  so  strong. 

Who  never  sins,  because  sin  tempts  him  not. 

To  him  who  fights  temptation  one  by  one, 

How  sweet  God’s  words  when  the  last  fight  is  fought, 
“ Beloved  servant,  well,  and  nobly  done.” 

1870. 


ONE  OF  THESE. 

Some  have  robes,  of  silk  and  velvet, 

Cast  like  manna,  down  ; 

Others  toil  through  wind  and  weather, 

For  a homespun  gown. 

Some  are  born  to  ride  in  coaches, 

Sitting  at  their  ease ; 

Others  plod  foot-sore  and  weary. 

(I  am  one  of  these.) 

Some  have  sounding  name  and  title, 

Here  upon  the  earth ; 

Others  dwell  apart  from  glory— 

No  one  knows  their  worth. 

Some  have  wealth,  and  fame,  and  beauty, 
All  the  things  that  please  ; 

Some  are  poor,  and  plain  and  lonely. 

(T  am  one  of  these.) 


SHELLS . 


93 


Some  complain,  in  midst  of  pleasures, 
Of  a hard,  sad  lot, 

Doubting  God,  denying  heaven, 
Loving,  trusting  not. 

Others,  hedged  about  with  sorrows, 
Do,  on  bended  knees, 

Praise  and  bless  the  Lord  forever. 

(I  am  one  of  these.) 


A FANCY. 

Drop  down  the  crimson  curtains, 

And  shut  out  the  dazzling  snow, 

The  cold  white  mantle  that  covers 

The  hills,  where  the  grasses  should  grow ; 
And  stir  up  the  fire  till  it  burneth, 

With  a heat  like  the  midsummer  sun. 

And  hang  up  the  cage  by  the  window, 

And  bring  in  the  plants,  one  by  one, 


Till  they  perfume  the  air  with  a fragrance 
As  rare  as  the  summer  can  bring. 

And  call  to  the  bird,  till  he  trilleth 
The  sweetest  of  notes  he  can  sing. 

And  let  me  lie  here,  while  you  fan  me, 
Till  the  lazy  air  stirs,  like  a breeze, 


94 


SHELLS. 


That  comes  o’er  the  hills  in  the  summer, 

And  rustles  the  tops  of  the  trees. 

Then  sing  me  a song  of  the  summer, 

A song  full  of  warmth  and  sunlight, 

And  I will  forget  that  the  winter 
Stalks  over  the  earth  in  his  might. 

I will  dream  that  I lie  in  the  clover, 

And  your  voice  is  the  voice  of  the  breeze, 
And  the  bird  in  the  cage  is  the  robin, 

That  sends  down  his  song  from  the  trees. 

1871. 


TIRED. 

Mv  heart  and  soul  are  all  to  tired  to  tell ; 

So  weary,  Lord, 

Of  this  long,  ceaseless  work  of  doing  well, 
Without  reward. 

Oh,  I have  been  thy  servant  now  for  years, 

Nor  made  complaint, 

Though  my  life  cup  has  been  abrim  with  tears, 
But  now  I faint. 

And  I have  worked  for  thee,  with  all  my  strength, 
In  pain  and  woe. 


SHELLS . 


95 


. • 


My  Master,  canst  thou  chide  me,  if  at  length 
I ask  to  go  ? 

Oh,  if  the  soul  is  purified  by  fire, 

Then  I am  blest. 

The  laborer  is  worthy  of  his  hire — 

Lord,  give  me  rest. 

I know  that  I have  sinned  in  many  ways — 
A sinner  made. 

But  I have  tried  to  serve  thee  all  my  days — 
I’m  not  afraid. 

I know  full  well  my  record  is  not  clear, 

Nor  white  as  snow  ; 

But  better  meet  it  than  to  linger  here. 

Lord,  let  me  go. 


NEVER. 

I said,  last  winter,  “ When  the  grasses  grow, 
And  there  are  flowers  abloom  in  every  place, 
And  soft  south  winds  have  melted  all  the  snow, 
Then  I shall  meet  my  darling  face  to  face ; 
And  I shall  clasp,  and  hold  her  hand  in  mine, 
And  I shall  see  her  blue  eyes  glow  and  shine. 


96 


SHELLS. 


And  now  the  grass  is  green  on  moor  and  lea ; 

The  snow  has  vanished,  and  the  spring  is  here, 
The  robins  shout  from  every  forest  tree, 

The  meadow  larks  are  singing  loud  and  clear, 
And  there  are  flowers  abloom  in  every  place — 
And  yet  I do  not  see  my  darling’s  face. 

All  soft  and  mild,  the  gentle  south  wind  blew, 

The  snow  clouds  vanished,  and  the  sunshine  fell 
Upon  the  meadow,  and  the  daisies  grew, 

And  violets  and  pansies  graced  the  dell. 

The  bees  are  busy,  while  they  softly  hum, 

And  yet — and  yet — my  darling  does  not  come. 

Alas  ! for  never  will  she  come  again, 

She  sleepeth,  sleepeth,  still  and  silent  now; 

Her  couch  is  hollowed  from  the  grassy  plain, 

And  daisies  bloom  and  blow  above  her  brow ; 
And  I can  never  hold  her  hand  in  mine, 

And  I can  never  see  her  blue  eyes  shine. 

1869. 


TRUE  LOVE. 

I think  true  love  is  something  like  a tree ; 
The  oak,  that  lifts  its  branches  to  the  sky. 


SHELLS. 


97 


The  woodman’s  axe  may  strike  it  fatally, 

Or  it  may  fall,  when  mighty  winds  sweep  by. 
And  where  it  grew,  the  flowers  may  bloom  instead, 
And  all  may  seem  as  though  the  tree  were  dead. 

But  underneath  the  grass,  and  flowers,  there  lies, 
Hid  from  the  gaping  world,  a tiny  root, 

A little  living  germ,  that  never  dies ; 

And  ever  and  anon  its  branches  shoot 
Up  through  the  earth,  and  mock,  and  strive  to  be 
The  mighty  forest  king — the  parent  tree. 

So  love  may  wither,  at  the  hand  of  Fate, 

Or  fall  beneath  the  killing  winds  that  blow ; 

And  other  loves  may  spring  up,  soon  or  late, 

And  flowers  of  forgetfulness  may  grow, 

Over  the  spot  where  love  once  grew  instead, 

And  we  may  think  the  old-time  passion  dead. 

And  still  the  little  germ  lies  in  the  heart, 

So  closely  hidden  that  it  is  not  known ; 

And  ever  and  anon  its  branches  start — 

V ain  mimics  of  the  passion  that  has  flown. 
Though  love,  once  slain,  can  live  not,  as  of  yore, 

I think  its  ghost  will  haunt  us  evermore. 

1871. 


7 


98 


SHELLS. 


HIS  SONG. 

A poet  wandered  the  city  street, 

With  tattered  garments,  and  aching  feet ; 

Want  and  hunger  had  dimmed  his  eye, 

And  the  children  jeered  him,  as  he  passed  by. 

But  one  of  the  children  sang,  at  play, 

A song  his  mother  had  sung  that  day. 

The  poet  listened,  with  cheeks  aflame, 

For  the  song  was  his  own,  and  this  was  fame  ! 

But  his  heart  was  lightened.  The  song  of  the  boy 
Had  thrilled  the  strings,  with  a strange,  sweet  joy. 
“ Though  I may  lie  with  the  nameless  dead, 

The  songs  I have  written  will  live,”  he  said. 

* 1872. 


WHEN  YOU  GO  AWAY. 

When  you  go  away,  my  friend, 

When  we  say  our  last  good-bye, 

Then  the  summer  time  will  end, 

And  the  winter  will  be  nigh. 

Though  the  green  grass  decks  the  heather, 
And  the  birds  sing  all  the  day, 


SHELLS. 


99 


There  will  be  no  summer  weather, 

After  you  have  gone  away. 

When  I look  into  your  eyes, 

I shall  thrill  with  sharpest  pain  ; 

Thinking  that  beneath  the  skies, 

I may  never  look  again. 

You  will  feel  a moment’s  sorrow — 

I shall  feel  a lasting  grief ; 

You  forgetting  on  the  morrow — 

I,  to  mourn  with  no  relief. 

When  we  say  the  last,  sad  words, 

And  you  are  no  longer  near, 

All  the  winds,  and  all  the  birds, 

Can  not  keep  the  summer  here. 

Life  will  lose  its  full  completeness, 

Lose  it,  not  for  you,  but  me  ; 

All  the  beauty  and  the  sweetness 
Earth  can  hold,  I shall  not  see. 

1870. 


BLEAK  WEATHER. 

Dear  love,  where  the  red  lillies  blossomed  and  grew, 
The  white  snows  are  falling ; 

And  all  through  the  wood,  where  I wandered  with  you, 


100 


SHELLS, 


The  loud  winds  are  calling  ; 

And  the  robin  that  piped  to  us  tune  upon  tune, 

Neath  the  elm — you  remember, 

Over  tree-top  and  mountain  has  followed  the  June, 

And  left  us — December. 

Has  left,  like  a friend  that  is  true  in  the  sun, 

And  false  in  the  shadows. 

He  has  foimd  new  delights,  in  the  land  where  he’s  gone, 
Greener  woodlands  and  meadows. 

What  care  we  ? let  him  go  ! let  the  snow  shroud  the  lea, 
Let  it  drift  on  the  heather  ! 

We  can  sing  through  it  all ; I have  you — you  have  me, 
And  we’ll  laugh  at  the  weather. 

The  old  year  may  die,  and  a new  one  be  born 
That  is  bleaker  and  colder ; 

But  it  cannot  dismay  us ; we  dare  it — we  scorn, 

For  love  makes  us  bolder. 

Ah  Robin  ! sing  loud  on  the  far-distant  lea, 

Thou  friend  in  fair  weather  ; 

But  here  is  a song  sung,  that’s  fuller  of  glee, 

By  two  warm  hearts  together. 


1870. 


SHELLS . 


101 


THE  TALE  THE  ROBIN  TOLD. 

I walked  to-day,  in  the  grassy  dell, 

Where  the  cunning  ground-bird  hides  her  nest, 
And  just  where  the  plum-tree’s  shadow  fell, 

I sat  me  down  for  a while  to  rest. 

And  a robin  came,  and  sat  in  the  tree, 

And  told  a long-lost  tale  to  me. 

Of  a maiden,  pure  as  the  morning  light, 

And  fresh  as  a white  rose,  bathed  in  dew. 

Of  a youth  with  eyes  like  a stormy  night, 

And  a heart  that  nothing  of  candor  knew. 

And  all  through  the  valley,  green  and  fair, 

The  youth  and  the  maiden  wandered  there. 

He  plucked  the  violets,  blue  and  pale, 

The  lily  white,  and  the  roses  red, 

With  every  flower  that  decked  the  vale — 

But  the  maid  was  fairest  of  all,  he  said. 

And  the  robin  saw  him  kiss  her  cheek, 

And  the  maiden  blushed,  but  did  not  speak. 

And  he  held  her  hand,  in  a lover’s  way, 

And  he  saw  the  blush  that  his  glance  awoke, 
And  with  eye,  and  tone,  he  seemed  to  say 
The  words  that  his  false  lips  never  spoke. 


102 


SHELLS. 


And  of  her  strength,  and  her  life  a part, 

Was  the  love  that  grew  in  the  maiden’s  heart. 

But  the  summer  died,  and  the  autumn  came, 

And  the  maiden  walked  in  the  vale  alone  ; 
And  the  hopeless  love,  like  a scorching  flame, 
Burned  out  her  life,  but  she  made  no  moan. 
And  she  drooped,  and  died,  as  the  year  grew  old, 
And  this  was  the  tale  that  the  robin  told. 


A MEMORY. 

Oh,  do  you  remember  that  night,  long  ago, 

When  I gave  you  the  rose  from  my  hair  ? 

And  you  whispered,  “ I’ll  wear  it  close  over  my  heart, 
As  I cherish  the  sweet  gh  er  there  ?” 

’Twas  a long  time  ago  ? you’ve  forgotten,  perhaps, 
That  such  a thing  ever  occurred. 

But  to-night,  as  I sit  in  the  firelight’s  glow, 

My  heart’s  with  the  memory  stirred, 

And  I seem  to  live  over  my  girlhood  again, 

When  my  life  was  as  warm  as  the  spring  : 

Before  it  had  read  the  sharp  lesson  of  pain, 

And  when  you  were  my  hero,  and  king. 


SHELLS. 


103 


Oh ! you  were  not  worthy  the  love  that  I gave, 

Like  the  the  sun  in  midsummer,  it  burned ; 

While  a passionless  fancy,  an  idle  day-dream, 

Was  the  poor,  shallow  thing  you  returned. 

Long  ago — long  ago  ! time  has  softened  the  pain, 
That  threataned  to  shadow  my  life. 

I am  older,  and  wiser  I think,  now,  than  then, 

And  you  have  a beautiful  wife — 

As  pure  as  the  angels,  as  fair,  too,  they  say, 

With  her  blue  eyes  and  snowy- white  lid. 

But  I cannot  help  wondering,  here  to  myself, 

If  she  loves  you  as  well  as  I did. 

Ah  me  ! it  can  never  harm  you,  or  your  bride, 

For  me  to  dream  over  that  night, 

When  you  whispered  sweet  words  o’er  the  rose  from 
my  hair, 

And  my  foolish  heart  throbbed  in  delight. 

1868. 


WAITING . 

The  days  flow  on,  and  on, 
And  never  one  comes  back. 
Another  year  has  vanished  and  gone. 


104 


SHELLS . 


As  the  waves  of  the  sea  wash  out  the  track 
On  the  shining  sands  o’  th’  shore. 

And  patience  waneth,  and  hope  is  spent, 

As  I wait  and  watch  for  the  one  who  went, 

And  cometh  to  me  no  more. 

The  spring-time  lived  and  died, 

And  the  summer  followed  fast; 

And  I watched  through  both,  with  a heart  that  cried, 
For  the  one  who  vanished  into  the  past, 

Like  a beautiful  star  from  the  sky ; 

Who  sailed  in  a good  ship  over  the  sea, 

And  the  ship  came  back  : “ But  where  is  he, 

Oh,  treacherous  ship,”  I cry  ? 

The  autumn,  gold  and  brown, 

Rose  from  the  summer’s  grave, 

And  the  rain  and  my  tears  fell  down  and  down, 

As  day  by  day  I stood  by  the  wave, 

And  cried  aloud  in  my  pain. 

But  what  cares  the  sea  for  a tortured  soul ! 

It  mocks  at  grief,  and  the  breakers  roll, 

Singing  a loud  refrain. 

And  never  a word  from  thee, 

But  a silence  deep  as  death ; 

Though  the  winter  gleameth  on  moor  and  lea, 

And  the  cold,  cold  wind,  with  its  cruel  breath, 


SHELLS . 


105 


Blows  over  the  angry  sea. 

Yet  alway  and  ever,  till  life  is  done. 

Shall  I watch,  and  wait,  and  weep  for  one 
Who  cometh  never,  to  me. 

1869. 


DRIFTING  APART. 

Farther  apart,  each  day,  our  lives^are  drifting; 

Farther  apart  at  every  set  of  sun. 

The  clouds  between  us  show  no  signs  of  lifting, 

But  droop,  and  gather  shadows,  one  by  one. 

Drifting  apart ! the  visions  that  I’ve  cherished, 
Within  my  loving,  foolish  heart  for  years, 

At  those  two  meaning  words,  have  rudely  perished, ; 
And  in  their  place  is  naught  but  bitter  tears. 

I do  not  weep — I do  not  sigh,  and  languish, 

And  murmur  at  the  hard  decree  of  fate. 

I walk  my  way,  in  silent,  smiling  anguish, 

Knowing  remorse,  and  tears,  are  all  too  late. 

But  oh,  my  darling ! I am  only  human, 

And  though  ’tis  weakness,  I do  love  you  yet. 
Mine  is  the  heart,  of  clinging,  constant  woman, 
Whose  lot  it  is  to  love,  and  not  forget. 


106 


SHELLS. 


1 know  that  we  can  never  stem  the  current, 

That  bore  the  sunshine  of  my  life  away ; 

Our  feet  can  never  cross  the  unbridged  torrent 
That  flows  between  us,  wider  every  day. 

Perhaps,  when  we  have  passed  the  heavenly  portal, 
And  all  our  tears  are  dried  by  Christ,  the  Friend, 

And  we  have  entered  on  the  life  immortal, 

Perhaps  our  path  ways  There  may  meet,  and  blend 

I cannot  tell ; the  mystic,  grand  To-morrow 
Was  never  meant  for  earthly,  mortal  eyes. 

But  it  is  sweet,  to  think  all  tears  and  sorrow, 

Will  vanish  at  the  dawn  of  heavenly  skies. 

1868. 


ONCE  MORE  TOGETHER. 

[To  H.  A.  M.] 

What  sounds  so  sweet  as  the  glad  words  of  greeting? 

And  what  starts  the  tears, 

Like  the  warm  kiss,  that  is  given  at  meeting 
After  long  years. 


Friend  of  my  heart,  we  are  once  more,  together  ; 
s Hand  clasped  in  hand. 


SHELLS . 


107 


We  sit  and  we  walk  in  the  beautiful  weather 
That  gladdens  the  land. 

Oh,  rare  golden  days,  in  the  heart  of  September ; 

Days  more  than  sweet — 

Days  that  my  heart  will  forever  remember, 

Ye  are  too  fleet ! 


Why  haste  away  ! the  greedy  “ Past’s  ” measure 
Already  run’s  o’er ; 

But  like  a miser  who  hoards  up  rare  treasure, 

He  cries  out  for  “ more.” 


Oh  bright  Autumn  days  ! If  you  only  would  linger 
And  loiter,  and  stay  ! 

Too  soon  old  time  shall  be  pointing  his  finger 
And  bidding  me  say 

That  word  “ Good-bye,”  that’s  so  hard  to  be  spoken. 
Hearts  have  been  stirred 

Almost  to  breaking ; and  fond  hearts  have  broken 
At  that  last  word. 

Away  with  these  sad  thoughts ! this  rare  golden  weather 
Shall  not  find  me  sad, 

Because  we  cannot  always  wander  together, 

But  I will  be  glad 


108 


SHELLS . 


Of  the  days  that  are  left.  No  foreboding  of  sorrow 
Shall  darken  my  sky. 

Nor  To-day  be  o’erclouded,  because  some  To-morrow. 
I must  say  good-bye. 


1871. 


ONCE  IN  A WHILE. 

Once  in  a while,  in  this  world  so  strange, 

To  lighten  our  sad  regrets, 

We  find  a heart  that  is  true  through  change — 
A heart  that  never  forgets. 

Oh  rare  as  a blossoming  rose  in  December — 
As  a bird  in  an  Arctic  clime, 

Is  a heart,  a heart  that  can  remember 
Through  sorrow  and  change  and  time. 

Once  in  a while  we  find  a love 

That  will  live  through  life  and  death, 

Ay ! that  will  follow  the  soul  above, 

Not  passing  away  with  the  breath. 

But  rarer,  oh  rarer  by  far  and  stranger 
Than  a spring  in  the  desert  sand, 

Is  a love  that  will  last,  with  toil,  and  danger, 
And  strife  on  every  hand. 

Once  in  a while  we  find  a friend 
That  will  cling  through  good  or  ill, 


SHELLS. 


109 


Whose  friendship  follows  us  e’en  to  the  end, 

Be  it  up  or  adown  the  hill, 

But  the  heart  so  true,  and  the  love  so  tender, 

And  friendship’s  faithful  smile, 

Whether  we  dwell  in  squalor  or  splendor, 

We  find  but  “ once  in  a while.” 

1872. 


HE  A UTY. 

Though  thy  cheek  be  fair,  as  the  roses  are, 

Thy  brow  like  the  drifted  snow, 

And  thine  eye  as  bright,  as  the  diamonds  light, 
Y et  if  in  thy  heart  doth  grow 
But  noxious  weeds,  and  selfish  deeds 
Follow  thy  steps  alway, 

What  in  the  end  availeth  it,  friend, 

If  thy  face  is  fair,  I pray. 

For  the  smoothest  brow,  old  Time  will  plow, 
And  he  dimmeth  the  brightest  eye; 

And  the  fairest  face,  and  the  form  of  grace, 

In  the  lowly  grave  must  lie. 

But  our  deeds  live  on,  when  life  is  done. 

Nor  Time,  nor  death  destroy  ; 

And  the  words  we  say,  will  make  their  way 
With  sorrow,  or  with  joy. 


110 


SHELLS. 


And  even  the  thought,  that  we  utter  not, 

In  heaven  is  like  a shout. 

And  bad  or  good,  it  is  understood, 

And  the  angels  write  it  out. 

But  they  do  not  care,  if  the  face  be  fair, 

Or  what  the  world  deems  plain. 

They  look  to  the  heart,  and  the  deathless  part, 
For  the  rest  is  poor  and  vain. 

1870. 


A PLEA  FOR  FAME. 

Let  those  slander  fame  who  will — 
Call  her  cheat  and  blame  her  ways. 
It  may  all  be  true ; and  still 
I shall  give  her  words  of  praise. 

She  has  been  my  faithful  friend, 

True  and  constant  to  the  end. 

Since  I saw  her  hand  first  beckon 
Far  above  my  lowly  plain, 

I have  had  no  need  to  reckon 
What  my  loss,  or  what  my  gain. 

She  has  made  sweet  blossoms  blow 
In  whatever  path  I go  ; 

She  hath  made  the  dark  ways  light, 
Made  the  somber  ] daces  bright ; 


SHELLS. 


Ill 


She  has  filled  my  empty  cup 
Full  to  overflow  with  pleasure, 
And,  though  I may  drink  it  up, 

She  again  refills  the  measure. 

She  has  never  promised  aught 
That  she  has  not  more  than  brought. 
She  has  stood  by  me  in  danger, 

Made  a friend  of  many  a stranger — 
Made  a welcome  warm  for  me 
Whereso’er  my  lot  may  be ; 

Thrown  wide  open  many  a door 
That  was  closed  to  me  before  ; 

Given  me  every  boon  and  blessing — 
Almost — that  is  worth  possessing. 

All  my  life,  I never  knew 
Any  other  friend  so  true. 

Youth  and  Love  are  fleeting  things  ; 
Wealth  has  light  and  airy  wings — 
Fame,  once  mine,  will  never  flee, 

She  has  been  a friend  to  me. 

Let  who  will  condemn  her  ways. 

I shall  always  sing  her  praise. 


1872. 


112 


SHELLS. 


SOME  WHERE. 

Somewhere  there  is  a spot  of  ground, 

Covered  with  grass,  or  snow,  may-be, 

That  one  day  will  be  spaded  ’round 
And  dug  up  to  make  room  for  me. 

And  I unconsciously  have  trod, 

Perhaps,  and  so  again  may  tread 

Upon  the  very  voiceless  sod, 

That  will  be  roof  above  my  head. 

Somewhere  upon  the  earth  to-day 

Are  dwelling  men,  who  yet  shall  spade 

And  cut  and  dig  the  earth  away, 

Until  my  narrow  house  is  made. 

Perchance  they  have  clasped  hands  with  me ; 
Those  hands,  that,  after  I am  dead, 

Shall  measure  me  so  reverently, 

To  find  how  long  to  make  my  bed. 

How  strangely,  solemn  thoughts  like  these 
Will  come,  when  life  seems  blithe  and  gay; 

Like  voices  of  the  passing  breeze, 

Saying  “All  things  must  pass  away-” 


SHELLS . 


113 


OUR  ANGEL. 

Upon  a couch  all  robed  by  careful  hands 
For  her  repose,  the  maiden  Mable  lies, 

Her  long  bright  hair  is  braided  in  smooth  bands — 
A mass  of  stranded  gold,  that  mortal  eyes 

May,  wondering,  gaze  upon  a little  while ; 

That  mortal  hands  may  touch  a few  times  more. 

Her  placid  lips  part  in  a sweet,  faint  smile, 

As  if  the  glories  of  that  mystic  shore, 

When  first  they  fell  upon  her  spirit  eyes — 

All  the  rare  splendors  of  that  unseen  way 

Had  touched  her  with  a wondering,  glad  surprise, 
And  left  the  pleased  expression  on  her  clay. 

Her  two  fair  hands  are  crossed  upon  her  breast — 
Two  shapes  of  wax  upon  a drift  of  snow. 

And  they  have  robed  her  for  her  peaceful  rest, 

Not  in  the  hateful  shroud — that  sign  of  woe, 


But  in  that  garb  we  loved  to  see  her  wear ; 

A dark  blue  robe,  fashioned  by  her  own  hand. 
I wonder,  as  I see  her  lying  there, 

If  God  will  give  her  spirit  in  His  land 
8 


114 


SHELLS. 


Another  shape.  She  could  not  be  more  fair. 

I think  he  will  not  change  her  form,  or  face, 

But  with  the  same  long,  rippling,  golden  hair 
She  will  kneel  down  before  the  throne  of  grace, 

And  wipe  God’s  feet ; and  her  dark  eyes  will  raise 
Up  to  Christ’s  face,  and  touch  Him  with  her  hand, 
And  will  with  her  own  sweet  voice,  sing  God’s  praise, 
And  still  be  fairest  in  the  Angel  band. 

1872. 


A SUMMER  IDYL. 

I hear  the  sound  of  the  reapers, 

All  in  the  golden  grain, 

And  voices  of  strong  young  binders, 

Singing  a sweet  refrain. 

The  winds  are  asleep  on  the  hilltops, 

And  the  sun  smiles  down  in  the  vale, 

Till  the  rose  faints  under  his  glances, 

And  her  cheek  grows  wan  and  pale. 

The  meadows  are  green  as  the  ocean ; 

And  the  winds,  when  they  wake  from  rest, 
Ripple  and  billow  the  grasses, 

Like  waves  on  the  ocean’s  breast. 

The  vine  grows  over  my  window, 


SHELLS . 


115 


Where  the  humming  bird  comes  each  day, 
And  the  robin  and  thrush  in  the  willow, 

Are  singing  their  lives  away. 

Oh  beautiful,  languid  Summer ! 

You  are  so  fleet,  so  fleet. 

Oh  youth,  and  joy,  and  gladness, 

Y ou  are  so  sweet — so  sweet ! 

My  life  is  a wonderful  poem, 

Complete  in  measure  and  rhyme, 

And  the  sweetest  of  all  the  stanzas 
Is  written  this  summer  time. 

But  the  golden  harvest  is  going — 

The  summer  will  fade  and  pass. 

The  thrush  and  the  robin  will  vanish, 

And  the  snow  fall  over  the  grass. 

The  vine  at  my  window  will  perish, 

And  the  beautiful  poem  of  life 
Will  change  to  a measure  of  sorrow, 

And  be  marred  and  broken  by  strife. 

Then  revel  in  youth,  and  summer ; 

Oh  heart,  be  glad  and  gay, 

For  sorrow,  and  blight,  and  winter, 

Are  coming  to  us  one  day. 


1872. 


116 


SHELLS. 


THE  MUSICIANS. 

The  strings  of  my  heart  were  strung  by  Pleasure, 
And  I laughed,  when  the  music  fell  on  my  ear, 

For  he  and  Mirth  played  a joyful  measure, 

And  they  played  so  loud  that  I could  not  hear 
The  wailing  and  moaning  of  souls  a-weary — 

The  strains  of  sorrow  that  floated  around, 

For  my  heart’s  notes  rang  loud  and  cheery, 

And  I heard  no  other  sound. 

Mirth  and  Pleasure,  the  music  brothers, 

Played  louder  and  louder  in  joyful  glee; 

But  sometimes  a discord  was  heard  by  others — 
Though  only  the  rythm  was  heard  by  me. 

Louder  and  louder,  and  faster  and  faster 

The  hands  of  the  brothers  played  strain  on  strain, 
When  all  of  a sudden  a Mighty  Master 
Swept  them  aside  ; and  Pain, 

Pain,  the  musician,  the  soul-refiner, 

Restrung  the  strings  of  my  quivering  heart, 

And  the  air  that  he  played  was  a plaintive  minor, 

So  sad  that  the  tear-drops  were  forced  to  start ; 
Each  note  was  an  echo  of  awful  anguish, 

As  shrill  as  solemn,  as  sharp  as  slow, 

And  my  soul  for  a season  seemed  to  languish 
And  faint  with  its  weight  of  woe. 


SHELLS. 


117 


With  skillful  hands,  that  were  never  weary, 

This  Master  of  Music  played  strain  on  strain, 
And  between  the  bars  of  the  miserere, 

He  drew  up  the  strings  of  my  heart  again  : 

And  I was  filled  with  a vague,  strange  wonder, 

To  see  that  they  did  not  snap  in  two. 

“They  are  drawn  so  tight  they  will  break  asunder,” 
I thought,  but  instead,  they  grew, 

In  the  hands  of  the  Master,  firmer  and  stronger; 

And  I could  hear  on  the  stilly  air — 

Now  my  ears  were  deafened  by  Mirth  no  longer — 
The  sounds  of  sorrow,  and  grief,  and  despair, 
And  my  soul  grew  tender  and  kind  to  others  ; 

My  nature  grew  sweeter,  my  mind  grew  broad  ; 
And  I held  all  men  to  be  my  brothers, 

Linked  by  the  chastening  rod. 

My  soul  was  lifted  to  God  and  heaven, 

And  when  on  my  heart-strings  fell  again 
The  hands  of  Mirth  and  Pleasure,  even, 

There  was  never  a discord  to  mar  the  strain. 

For  Pain,  the  musician,  the  soul-refiner, 

Attuned  the  strings  with  a Master  hand, 

And  whether  the  music  be  major  or  minor, 

It  is  always  sweet  and  grand. 


1872. 


118 


SHELLS . 


IN  VAIN 

The  artist  looks  down  on  his  canvass, 

And  smothers  a heart-weary  sigh, 

And  he  sees  not  the  beautiful  picture 
That  glows  with  the  hues  of  the  sky. 

For  a picture  that  cannot  be  painted 
Burns  into  the  artist’s  brain, 

And  he  weeps  as  he  sits  at  his  easel, 

And  sobs  through  his  sorrow,  “ In  vain.” 

The  poet  reads  over  his  poem, 

The  thoughts  of  a Heaven-lent  soul — 

And  sweet  as  the  ripple  of  waters 
The  beautiful  sentences  roll. 

But  a poem  that  cannot  be  written, 

Burns  into  the  poet’s  brain, 

And  he  weeps  in  a passion  of  anguish, 

And  sobs  through  his  sorrow,  “ In  vain.” 

The  musician  sits  at  his  organ, 

And  the  air  echoes  sweet  melodies. 

But  his  heart  cries  for  sounds  that  are  better 
Than  the  sounds  that  he  draws  from  the  keys. 

For  a chord  that  has  never  been  sounded — 

A passionate, — ecstatic  strain. 

And  he  weeps  as  he  sits  at  the  organ, 

And  sobs  through  his  sorrow,  “ In  vain.” 


SHELLS . 


119 


Oh  Artist,  Musician  and  Poet ! 

Three  souls  that  were  lent  to  the  earth 
To  brighten  with  fingers  of  beauty 
This  bare,  barren  planet  of  dearth  ! 

You  dream  of  the  glories  of  Heaven, 

And  vainly  are  striving  to  show 
To  the  gaze  of  the  clay-fettered  mortals, 

The  things  that  no  mortal  shall  know. 

1871. 


BABY  EVA. 

[Lines  to  the  sweetest  little  girl  in  the  world.] 

Sitting  and  watching  the  fire-light  fall 
In  fitful  gleams,  on  floor,  and  wall, 

I think  of  the  fairest  of  baby-girls, 

With  bright  blue  eyes,  and  sunny  curls, 

With  two  round  cheeks,  and  a dimpled  hand — 
The  sweetest  baby  in  all  the  land. 

I think  of  her  thousand  coaxing  arts, 

That  won  her  place  in  my  heart  of  hearts  ; 

And  how  at  twilight,  the  baby's  hour — 

A winsome  queen,  she  ruled  in  power  ; 

And  laid  on  my  shoulder  her  head  of  gold 
And  named  the  stories  she  wanted  told. 


120 


SHELLS . 


“ Goosey  Loosey,”  “ Cat  and  Mouse,” 

London  Bridge,”  and  “ Jack  and  his  House,” 

“ Peter’s  Pig,”  and  “ the  Foolish  Frog,” 

“ The  Mooley  Cow,”  and  u the  Poly-wog.” 

And  when  these  were  told,  as  many  more, 

Till  I needs  must  add,  to  my  ample  atore. 

I can  think  how  the  bright  little  eyes  would  glow 
At  the  tale  of  the  kid  that  was  made  to  go. 

How  they  filled  with  tears,  when  Old  Mother  Hubbard 
Opened  the  door  on  an  empty  cupboard. 

How  they  sparkled  with  glee,  and  glowed  with  fun 
When  she  heard  how  the  wasp  made  the  hornet  run. 

Over  and  over  the  winsome  elf 

Would  plead  for  the  stories  she  knew  herself ; 

She  would  sigh  o’er  the  fate  of  poor  Hen-Pen 
Who  foolishly  hid  in  the  Fox’s  den, 

And  grieve  o’er  the  poor  little  mouse  that  was  drowned 
Before  his  “ great  long  tail  ” was  found. 

And  sitting  alone  in  the  fire-light’s  glow, 

And  thinking  about  it,  all  I know 
That  not  on  the  earth,  in  any  place, 

Is  there  such  another  winsome  face — 

Is  there  another,  so  sweet  and  wise, 

As  baby  Eva — beneath  the  skies. 

1873. 


SHELLS. 


121 


/ SHALL  NOT  FORGET 

I shall  not  forget  you.  The  years  may  be  tender, 

But  vain  are  their  efforts  to  soften  my  smart ; 

And  the  strong  hands  of  Time  are  too  feeble  and  slender 
To  garland  the  grave  that  is  made  in  my  heart. 

Your  image  is  ever  about  me — before  me, 

Your  voice  floats  abroad  on  the  voice  of  the  wind ; 

And  the  spell  of  your  presence,  in  absence,  is  o’er  me, 
And  the  dead  of  the  past,  in  the  present  I find. 

I cannot  forget  you.  The  one  boon  ungiven, 

The  boon  of  your  love,  is  the  cross  that  I bear. 

In  the  midnight  of  sorrow  I vainly  have  striven 
To  crush  in  my  heart  the  sweet  image  hid  there ; 

To  banish  the  beautiful  dreams  that  are  thronging 
The  halls  of  my  memory — dreams  worse  than  vain ; 

For  the  one  drop  withheld,  I am  thirsting  and  longing, 
For  the  one  joy  denied,  I am  weeping  in  pain. 

I would  not  forget  you.  I live  to  remember 
The  beautiful  hopes  that  bloomed  but  to  decay, 

And  brighter  than  June  glows  the  bleakest  December, 
When  peopled  with  ghosts  of  the  dreams  passed  away. 

Once  loving  you  truly,  I love  you  forever ; 

I mourn  not  in  weak,  idle  grief  for  the  past ; 

But  the  love  in  my  bosom  can  never,  oh  never 
Pass  out,  or  another  pass  in,  first  or  last. 


122 


SHELLS. 


THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW. 

As  a mother  who  dies  in  travail — 

Who  closes  her  eyes  in  death, 

And  sinks  in  the  sleep  that  is  long  and  deep, 

With  her  babe’s  first  wailing  breath, 

In  the  hush  of  the  midnight  watches, 

So  the  old  year  passed  away, 

And  the  new  was  born,  and  was  hailed  this  morn, 
As  the  “ Happy  New  Year  Day.” 

The  day  when  our  eyes  look  backward, 

To  see  what  our  hands  have  done, 

Through  the  hours  of  gold  that  the  dead  year  told, 
Like  the  beads  of  a pious  Nun — 

When  we  shut  up  the  blotted  ledger, 

With  its  record  of  joy  and  grief, 

Of  losses  and  gains,  and  pleasures  and  pains, 

And  turn  to  the  new  white  leaf. 

We  hoped,  we  planned,  'and  we  promised, 

When  the  year  that  is  dead  was  young : 

But  our  hopes  are  like  leaves  that  are  withered, 
And  the  year  like  a song  that  is  sung. 

We  planned  out  some  wonderful  project, 

That  should  bring  to  us  riches  and  fame  : 

Hour  by  hour,  day  by  day,  our  plans  fell  away, 
And  our  project  was  only  a name. 


SHELLS. 


123 


We  promised  that  life  should  be  better, 

As  the  sphere  of  our  labors  grew  broad, 

That  “ those  things  behind  ” should  pass  from  the  mind, 
As  we  reached  for  the  prize  of  our  God. 

But  alas,  for  the  promises  given  ! 

Lo,  what  were  our  good  resolves  worth  ? 

They  were  lost  to  our  sight,  and  we  strayed  from  the 
light, 

And  worshiped  the  poor  things  of  earth. 


And  so  while  we  builded  our  castles, 

Wirh  turrets  of  sapphire  and  gold, 

Till  they  glowed  in  the  sun,  the  months  one  by  one, 
Slipped  away,  and  the  year  grew  old — 

Grew  feeble  and  old  and  departed 

In  the  shadows  and  gloom  of  the  night ; 

And  some  said  ’twas  a year  full  of  sorrow, 

And  some,  ’twas  a year  of  delight. 


Some,  sitting  in  darkness  and  weeping, 

Sob,  “ Oh,  but  the  year  was  so  long  !” 

And  some,  full  of  cheer,  say  the  beautiful  year 
Was  only  one  verse  of  a song. 

To  some  it  brought  gladness  and  pleasure, 

To  others  but  sorrow  and  gloom. 

It  gave  one  the  sweet  orange  blossoms, 
Another,  the  dust  of  the  tomb. 


124 


SHELLS. 


There  are  mothers  to-day  who  are  sitting, 

With  arms  that  are  aching  to  hold 

The  small  form  of  grace,  and  the  dear  little  face, 

And  the  head  with  its  crown  of  spun  gold  ; 

And  they  think  of  the  last  happy  New  Year, 

And  the  voice  that  made  music  all  day, 

And,  sitting  alone  in  the  silence,  they  moan, 

For  the  babe  that  is  hidden  away. 

There  are  maidens,  in  love-letters,  reading 
The  story  so  old  and  so  new  ; 

And  their  happy  hearts  beat,  in  a rythm  so  sweet, 

As  they  read  of  the  love  strong  and  true ; 

And  they  think  that  of  all  the  glad  New  Years, 

There  was  never  another  so  glad ; 

And  they  heed  not  the  wail  of  the  mother,  so  pale, 
Who  thinks  the  day  dreary  and  sad. 

There  are  some  leaning  over  the  coffin 
Of  a hope  that  went  out  with  the  year  ; 

And  their  sad  eyes  are  dry,  and  the  lips  white  that  cry, 
“ The  hope  of  a life-time  lies  here.” 

God  pity  and  comfort  such  mourners, 

For  God  alone  knoweth  the  pain 

Of  these  suffering  hearts,  when  a dear  hope  departs, 
And  is  buried  to  rise  not  again. 

It  is  sad  to  lean  over  a lov’d  one, 

And  cover  the  face  with  a pall, 


SHELLS. 


125 


But  who  mourns,  with  bowed  head,  o’er  a hope  that  is 
dead, 

Has  the  bitterest  sorrow  of  all. 

God  grant  that  this  New  Year  may  bring  them, 

Some  other  hope,  fully  as  sweet ; 

May  it  cull  the  bright  flowers  from  happiness’  bowers, 
And  cast  them  in  wreaths  at  their  feet. 

Despair  and  delight  walk  together  ; 

The  sunshine  falls  over  the  tomb ; 

And  close  by  the  weary,  whose  lives  are  all  dreary, 

Walk  those  who  are  crowned  with  earth’s  bloom. 

Some  wearing  the  laurels  of  glory, 

And  flushed  with  the  glow  of  success, 

May  their  wreaths  never  pale,  or  their  honors  grow  stale, 
Or  their  hopes  or  their  happiness  less. 

Oh  wonderful  year  that  has  left  us  ! 

Full  of  tragedy,  sorrow  and  change, 

Was  there  ever  another  so  fateful, 

Was  there  ever  another  so  strange  ? 

Great  hearts  that  were  throbbing  last  New  Year 
Are  food  for  the  grave-worms  to-day, 

And  lips  whose  least  word  a whole  nation  heard, 

Are  nothing  but  cold,  silent  clay. 

There  was  one  who  was  crowned  with  the  Fern  Leaves, 
Whose  ringing  tones,  full  of  good  cheer, 


126 


SHELLS. 


Lightened  hearts  that  were  sad,  and  made  weary  ones 
glad, 

On  many  a weary  New  Year. 

There  was  one  double-dowered  by  heaven, 

Twice  gifted  and  favored  by  God, 

Reid,  whose  brush,  and  whose  pen,  made  him  king 
among  men, — 

He,  too,  lieth  under  the  sod. 

And  another,  the  hero  of  battles, 

Before  whom  the  enemy  fled 
In  alarm  and  dismay,  while  he  won  the  day, 

Mead, — warrior  and  hero,  is  dead. 

There  was  one  who  climbed  up  the  steep  ladder, 

Step  by  step,  on  rounds  that  he  made  ; 

And  carved  out  his  name,  on  the  summit  of  Fame, 

In  letters  that  never  will  fade. 

He  struggled  for  knowledge  and  riches, 

Position  and  and  glory,  and  won . 

But,  reaching  too  far,  like  a child  for  a star, 

He  fell,  with  the  words,  “ It  is  done  !” 

It  is  done,  all  the  climbing  and  toiling ; 

It  is  done,  all  the  worry  and  strife, 

All  the  bitter  and  sweet,  th*  success  and  defeat, — 

It  is  done,  the  great  drama  of  life. 

It  is  done,  all  the  year  could  do  for  us, 

Its  mixture  of  shadow  and  sun, 


SHELLS. 


m 


Its  smiles  and  its  tears,  its  hopes  and  its  fears, 

Its  labors  and  duties,  all  done. 

We  stand  face  to  face  with  the  New  Year, 

Nor  know  what  it  hides  from  our  sight ; 

God  grant  that  it  be  kind  to  you,  and  to  me, 

That  it  lead  us  in  ways  that  are  light. 

The  bells  in  the  steeples  are  joyful, 

The  children  are  shouting  in  glee, 

There  is  mirth  and  good  cheer  in  the  happy  New  Year — 
All  hail  to  young  ’73  ! 

Come  out  of  the  shadows,  ye  mourners  ! 

And  drop,  for  this  one  day  at  least, 

Your  mantles  of  woe,  and  let  us  all  go 
And  take  part  in  the  revel  and  feast. 

Let  us  laugh  like  gay  children  together, 

Forgetting  we  ever  shed  tears — 

Forgetting  the  losses,  the  sorrows  and  crosses 
That  came  to  our  lives  with  the  years — 

Remembering  only  the  perfume, 

The  beauty,  the  bloom,  and  the  sun, 

Let  us  talk  of  the  New  Years  departed, 

And  call  this  the  happiest  one. 


January  1st,  1873. 


128 


SHELLS. 


DECORATION  POEM. 

A year  that  was  solemn,  and  sad  and  strange, 

Has  passed  away  to  its  tomb, 

Since  we  made  the  graves  of  our  dear,  dead  braves 
Like  a garden,  all  abloom, — 

A year  that  brought  sorrow,  and  want,  and  change — 
A year  with  a fateful  breath  : 

And  the  dreaded  beat  of  its  flame-shod  feet 
Wrought  ruin,  and  woe,  and  death. 

High  and  higher  the  tongues  of  fire 
Leaped  up  in  a single  night, 

Till  the  walls  of  a town  went  crumbling  down, 

And  a city  fell  in  her  might. 

And  with  flame  and  disease,  and  woes  like  these, 
Death  laughed  in  his  mad,  wild  glee  ; 

And  Pestilence  loosened  his  imps  in  the  land, 

And  ships  went  down  at  sea. 

But  with  all  of  the  passion,  and  pain,  and  fear, — 
With  all  of  the  long,  sad  hours, — 

We  have  not  forgotten  to  offer  here 
Our  yearly  tribute  of  flowers. 

I think  the  heart  in  a loyal  breast 
Knows  no  such  word  as  foi'get ; 

And  I think — nay,  know — that  in  weal  or  in  woe, 
We  shall  remember  our  debt. 


SHELLS . 


129 


The  debt  of  a nation  redeemed  from  shame, 

And  a million  of  slaves  set  free, 

Of  a spotless  fame,  and  cherished  name, 

Honored  on  land  and  sea. 

Of  the  dear  old  flag  kept  out  of  the  dust, 

The  flag  of  the  brave  and  true, 

And  this  is  the  debt  we  are  owing  yet 
To  the  boys  who  wore  the  blue. 

Thousands  are  sleeping  in  Southern  graves, 

With  no  slab  to  tell  us  where ; 

But  the  land  where  the  sweet  magnolia  waves, 
God’s  hands  keep  fresh  and  fair. 

And  the  angels  above;  in  pity  and  love, 

Watch  over  the  unknown  mound, 

Where  some  heart’s  joy,  some  mother’s  boy, 

A ‘nameless  grave  has  found. 

To  a clear  sweet  song  that  is  free  and  strong, 

Yet  sad  with  a minor  strain, 

I liken  the  lives  of  the  boys  in  blue, 

Who  died  ere  they  knew  our  gain  ; 

To  a glad,  glad  song,  that  rings  loud  and  bold, 

In  a stirring  major  key, 

I liken  in  thought,  the  boys  who  fought, 

And  were  crowned  with  victory. 

To  the  hero  who  comes  with  the  beating  of  drums, 
We  can  give  the  laurels  of  fame; 


130 


SHELLS. 


And  with  mirth,  and  music,  and  song  and  feast, 

We  can  honor  and  praise  his  name  ; 

But  we  bring  to  the  bed  of  the  sainted  dead, 

Only  these  wreaths  to-day  ; 

Yet  they  speak  with  their  bloom  and  sweet  perfume, 
More  than  our  lips  can  say. 

They  speak  of  a love  that  can  never  die, 

But  strengthen  and  grow  with  time ; 

Of  lives  that  blossom'  again  on  high, — 

Of  a faith  and  hope  sublime. 

They  tell  how  a grateful  nation’s  heart 
Remembers  her  tried  and  true, 

And  how  tears  are  shed  for  the  honored  dead, 

For  the  boys  who  wore  the  blue. 

They  speak  of  the  higher  and  purer  life 
That  the  Lord’s  dear  angels  know  ; 

Where  nought  can  enter  of  pain  or  strife, 

And  tears  can  never  flow. 

Sleep  on  brave  boys  your  graves  are  as  green 
As  the  thoughts  we  give  to  ye, 

And  these  blooms  will  say  ye  are  shrined  alway 
In  the  halls  of  memory. 

Forest  Hill  Cemetery,  May  30th,  1872. 


SHELLS. 


131 


AT  SET  OF  SUN. 

If  we  sit  down  at  set  of  sun, 

And  count  the  things  that  we  have  done, 

And  counting,  find 
One  self-denying  act,  one  word 
That  eased  the  heart  of  him  who  heard, 

One  glance,  most  kind, 

That  fell  like  sunshine  where  it  went — 

Then  we  may  count  that  day  well  spent. 

Or,  on  the  other  hand,  if  we, 

In  looking  through  the  day,  can  see 
A place  or  spot 

Where  we  an  unkind  act  put  down, 

Or  where  we  smiled  when  wont  to  frown, 

Or  crushed  some  thought 
That  cumbered  the  heart — ground  where  it  stood — 
Then  we  may  count  that  day  as  good. 

But  if,  through  all  the  life-long  day, 

W e’ve  eased  no  heart  by  yea  or  nay ; 

If  through  it  all 

W e’ve  done  no  thing  that  we  can  trace, 

That  brought  the  sunshine  to  a face — 

No  act  most  small 

That  helped  some  soul,  and  nothing  cost — 

Then  count  that  day  as  worse  than  lost. 


1869. 


132 


SHELLS . 


LOVE  SONG. 

When  the  glad  spring  time  walked  over  the  border, 

And  the  brown  honey  bee  crept  from  his  cell ; 

When  the  sun  and  the  west  wind  put  nature  in  order, 
And  decked  her  in  robes  that  became  her  so  well, 
Then  did  my  torpid  heart  waken  from  slumber, 

Then  did  I first  spring  to  life  and  to  light. 

For  what  were  the  years  passed  without  thee;  they  number 
Only  as  one  long,  dark,  flavorless  night. 

In  the  flush  of  the  spring  time,  I saw  thee,  and  seeing, 
Loved  with  the  love  that  had  waited  for  thee. 

A life  that  I never  had  known,  sprang  to  being — 

A life  and  a love  that  were  heaven  to  me. 

There  never  before  was  such  warmth  in  the  summer, 
There  never  before  were  such  hues  in  the  fall, 

Never  such  balm  in  the  breath  of  that  comer 

Who  shrouds  the  dead  seasons,  and  rules  over  all. 

Love,  I have  drank  in  the  charm  of  thy  presence, 

The  elixir  that  grants  me  perpetual  life. 

My  blood  leaps,  and  bounds  ! I am  thrilled  with  the 
essence, 

And  soar  over  trials,  and  troubles,  and  strife. 

We  live,  and  we  love  ! and  what  grief  can  alarm  us ; 
Darling,  my  darling,  the  world  is  our  own  ! 


SHELLS. 


133 


Life  never  can  rob  us — death  cannot  disarm  us 
Of  this,  our  vast  riches,  our  wealth,  love,  alone. 

The  summer  is  dead  ! did’st  know  it,  my  darling  ? 

Did’st  know  that  the  winter  walked  over  the  earth  ? 
The  gold-breasted  thrush,  and  the  quaker-crowned  starling 
Make  glad  other  lands,  with  their  innocent  mirth. 

Ah  no  ! for  the  summer  of  love  in  thy  bosom, 

Make  summer  and  sunlight,  for  thee,  everywhere. 

I should  not  have  known : but  I missed  the  bright 
blossom 

That  all  through  the  summer,  I saw  in  thy  hair. 

1870. 


JDISPLA  Y 

Oh  households  wherein  skeletons  abide  ! 

Keep  the  dark  closet  closed,  -nor  think  it  wise 
To  throw  the  door  open  for  stranger  eyes, 

To  see  the  grinning,  fleshless  thing  inside. 

I hate  that  senseless,  imbecile  display 

Of  loathsome  things,  that  calls  the  gaping  crowd 
To  gaze  and  comment.  Let  the  screening  shroud 
Cover  the  faces  of  the  dead,  I say. 

And  if  a household  counts  a skeleton, 

Then  keep  the  ghastly  phantom  closeted  ; 


134 


SHELLS . 


Nor  flaunt  the  bones  of  the  unquiet  dead 
For  all  the  vulgar  throng  to  gaze  upon. 

Oh  you  whose  souls  are  burdened  cruelly, 

Who  shrink  in  anguish  at  the  bitter  smart 
That  gnaweth,  burneth,  at  your  very  heart — 
Cover  the  wounds,  that  strangers  shall  not  see  ! 

Think  you  a bleeding  heart  will  sooner  heal, 

To  hang  where  all  the  cutting  winds  that  blow, 
And  all  the  birds  of  prey  can  mock  its  woe  ? 

I hate  that  vain  parade,  of  all  we  feel. 

Whoever  knew  the  world  to  give  relief 
To  any  private  sorrow  of  a heart ! 

Its  sneering  pity  is  a poisoned  dart ! 

Then  closet  well  your  phantoms,  and  your  grief. 

1869. 


AT  THE  WINDOW. 

Every  morning,  as  I walk  down 

From  my  dreary  lodgings,  toward  the  town, 

I see  at  the  window  near  the  street, 

The  face  of  a woman,  fair,  and  sweet, 

With  soft  brown  eyes,  and  chestnut  hair, 
And  red  lips,  warm  with  the  kiss  left  there. 


SHELLS. 


135 


And  she  lingers  as  long  as  she  can  see 
The  man  who  walks,  just  ahead  of  me. 

At  night,  when  I come  from  my  office,  down  town, 
There  stands  the  woman,  with  eyes  of  brown, 

Smiling  out  through  the  window-blind, 

At  the  man  who  comes  strolling  on  behind. 

This  fellow  and  I resemble  each  other ; 

At  least,  so  I’m  told,  by  one  and  another. 

(But  I think  I’m  the  handsomer,  far,  of  the  two.) 

I don’t  know  him  at  all,  save  to  “ how  d’ye  do,” 

Or  nod  when  I meet  him.  I think  he’s  at  work 
In  a dry  goods  store,  as  a salaried  clerk. 

And  I am  a lawyer,  of  high  renown  ; 

Have  a snug  bank  account,  and  an  office  down  town. 
Yet  I feel  for  that  fellow  an  envious  spite  : 

(It  has  no  better  name,  so  I speak  it  outright.) 

There  were  symptoms  before : but  it’s  grown,  I believe, 
Alarmingly  fast,  since  one  cloudy  eve, 

When  passing  the  little  house,  close  by  the  street, 

I heard  the  patter  of  two  tiny  feet, 

And  a figure  in  pink,  fluttered  down  to  the  gate, 

And  a sweet  voice  exclaimed,  “Oh,  Will,  you  are  late 

And,  darling,  I’ve  watched  at  the  window  until 

Sir,  I beg  pardon  ! I thought  it  was  Will.” 

I passed  on  my  way,  with  an  odd  little  smart 
Beneath  my  vest  pocket,  in  what’s  called  the  heart. 


136 


SHELLS. 


For,  as  it  happens,  my  name,  too,  is  Will; 

And  that  voice  crying  “darling”  sent  such  a strange  thrill 
Throughout  my  whole  being.  “How  nice  it  would  be,” 
Thought  I,  “if  it  were  in  reality  me 
That  she’s  watched  and  longed  for,  instead  of  that  lout.” 
(It  was  envy  made  me  use  that  word,  no  doubt, 

For  he’s  a fine  fellow,  and  handsome,  ahem  !) 

But  then  it’s  absurd  that  this  rare  little  gem 
Of  a woman,  should  be  on  the  look-out  for  him, 

Till  she  brings  on  a headache,  and  makes  her  eyes  dim, 
While  I go  to  lodgings,  dull,  dreary,  and  bare, 

With  no  one  to  welcome  me,  no  one  to  care 
If  I’m  early,  or  late — no  soft  eyes  of  brown 
To  watch  when  I go  to,  or  come  from,  the  town. 

This  bleak,  wretched  bachelor  life,  is  about, 

If  I may  be  allowed  the  expression — played  out. 
Somewhere  there  must  be,  in  this  wide  world,  I think, 
Another  fair  woman,  who  dresses  in  pink. 

And  I know  of  a cottage  for  sale  just  below, 

And  it  has  a French  window,  in  front,  and — heigho 
I wonder  how  long,  at  the  longest,  ’twill  be, 

Before  coming  home  from  the  office  I’ll  see 
A nice  little  woman  there,  watching  for  me. 

1870. 


SHELLS . 


137 


HOW. 

How  can  I let  my  youth  go  by  ? 

How  can  I let  Time  mark  my  brow, 

And  steal  the  light  of  a laughing  eye, 

And  whiten  the  locks  that  are  nut  brown  now. 
And  the  tide  that  goes, 

And  ripples,  and  flows, 

Like  a beautiful  river,  on  forever, 

Over  my  head,  through  every  vein, 

And  fills  me,  and  thrills  me,  with  joy  like  pain, 
Old  cruel  Time, 

With  a touch  of  rime, 

Will  drug,  and  chill,  and  freeze,  until 
It  likes  a stream, 

In  its  winter  dream. 


Ho  ! ho ! old  Time ! you  may  chuckle  and  smile, 
But  Death  may  cheat  you,  and  beat  you  yet; 
What  shall  you  say,  if,  after  a while, 

Ere  the  sun  of  my  youth  has  set, 

I go  with  him,  to  a closet  dim, 

And  closing  my  eyes,  in  a long,  long  rest, 

Lie  white  and  cold, 

And  never  grow  old, 

With  my  two  hands  clasped  over  my  breast. 


138 


SHELLS . 


Always  young, 

With  my  song  half  sung — 

Lying  under  the  graves’  green  mould ; 

And  the  world,  for  a day 
Would  miss  me,  and  say, 

“ When  will  the  rest  of  the  tale  be  told  ?” 

And  then  go  on, 

Gaily  on, 

Till  its  hopes  were  fears,  and  its  young  were  old. 

And,  lying  there, 

What  should  I care, 

Though  Time,  in  a phrenzy  of  baffled  rage, 
Should  beat  on  my  grave, 

And  howl  and  rave, 

That  I would  not  barter  my  youth,  for  age  ; 

But  lie  and  sleep, 

Down  low  and  deep, 

Though  suns  of  a thousand  seasons  set. 

Always  young, 

Never  old, 

With  my  song  half  sung, 

And  my  tale  half  told — 

Ho,  ho,  old  Time,  I may  cheat  you  yet! 

December,  1869, 


SHELLS. 


139 


B Y AND  J3  Y 

Sometime  fame  shall  come  to  me ; 
Sometime  in  the  “ yet  to  be.” 

Not  to-day,  and  not  to-morrow; 
After  years  of  toil  and  sorrow, 
After  loosing  youth  and  grace, 

In  the  weary,  foolish  chase, 

After  weeks  of  bitter  tears, 

After  months,  and  after  years, 
After  waiting  day  on  day, 
Throwing  love,  and  peace  away, 

I shall  find  the  phantom  nearing — 
I shall  find  the  shadows  clearing. 

I shall  reach  the  thing  I sought, 

I shall  reach,  and  find  it — what  ? 
vVill  it  recompense,  and  pay 
For  the  joys  I cast  away  ? 

In  the  weary,  weary  race, 

When  I lost  my  youth,  and  grace  ? 


Is  it  worth  the  wear,  and  strife — 
Worth  the  best  part  of  a life  ? 

Thus  have  men  and  women  queried, 
Standing  on  the  summit,  wearied 


140 


SHELLS. 


With  the  long  and  steep  ascent, 

When  their  youth  and  grace  were  spent. 

Time  sweeps  onward  with  his  cycle  : 

Life  is  brief,  and  love  is  fickle. 

I will  pause  not  at  his  calling, 

I will  heed  not  tear-drops  falling: 

Fame,  but  Fame,  will  satisfy, 

I shall  find  it  by  and  by. 

1870. 


KING  AND  SIREN 

The  harsh  king,  Winter,  sat  upon  the  hills, 

And  reigned,  and  ruled  the  earth  right  royally. 

He  locked  the  rivers,  lakes,  and  all  the  rills. 

“ I am  no  puny,  maudlin  king,”  quoth  he, 

But  a stern  monarch,  born  to  rule  and  reign, 

And  I will  show  my  power  to  the  end ; 

The  summer’s  flowery  retinue  I’ve  slain. 

And  taken  the  bold,  free  North- Wind  for  my  friend. 

Spring,  Summer,  Autumn — feeble  queens  they  were, 
With  their  vast  troops  of  flowers,  birds,  and  bees, 
And  winds,  that  made  the  long,  green  grasses  stir — 
They  lost  their  own  identity  in  these. 

I scorn  them  all  ! nay,  I defy  them  all ! 


SHELLS. 


141 


And  none  can  wrest  the  sceptre  from  my  hand. 

The  trusty  North- Wind  answers  to  my  call, 

And  breathes  his  icy  breath  upon  the  land.” 

The  Siren,  South- Wind,  listening  the  while. 

Now  floated  airily  across  the  lea. 

“ Oh,  King  !”  she  said,  with  tender  tone  and  smile, 

“ I come  to  do  all  homage  unto  thee. 

In  all  the  sunny  region  whence  I came, 

I find  none  like  thee,  King,  so  brave  and  grand. 
Thine  is  a well-deserved,  unrivalled  fame  ; 

I kiss  in  awe,  dear  King,  thy  cold  white  hand.” 

Her  words  were  pleasing,  and  most  fair  her  face. 

He  listened  wrapt,  to  her  soft- whispered  praise. 

She  nestled  nearer,  in  her  Siren  grace  ; 

“Dear  King,”  she  said,  “henceforth  my  voice  shall 
raise 

But  songs  of  thy  unrivalled  splendor  ! Lo  ! 

How  white  thy  brow  is ! How  thy  garments  shine — 

I tremble  ’neath  thy  beaming  glance,  for  oh, 

Thy  wondrous  beauty  mak’st  thee  seem  divine.” 

The  vain  king  listened,  in  a trance  of  bliss, 

To  this  most  sweet  sweet  voiced  Siren  from  the  south. 
She  nestled  close,  and  pressed  a lingering  kiss 
Upon  the  stern  white  pallor  of  his  mouth. 

She  hung  upon  his  breast — she  pressed  his  cheek — 


142 


SHELLS. 


And  he  was  nothing  loth  to  hold  her  there. 

While  she  such  tender,  loving  words  did  speak 
And  combed  his  white  locks,  with  her  fingers  fair. 

And  so  she  bound  him,  in  her  Siren  wiles, 

And  stole  his  strength  with  every  glance  she  gave, 
And  stabbed  him  through  and  through  with  tender  smiles, 
And  with  her  loving  words  she  dug  his  grave. 

And  then  she  left  him  : old,  and  weak,  and  blind — 
And  unlocked  all  the  rivers,  lakes  and  rills, 

While  the  Queen  Spring,  with  her  whole  troop  behind, 
Of  flowers,  and  birds,  and  bees,  came  over  the  hills. 

1871. 


AFTER  ? 

After  the  summer  glory  has  departed, 

After  the  sun  slides  low  adown  the  skies, 

After  each  snowy  rose,  and  the  red-hearted, 

Droops  in  the  chilling  blast,  and  faints,  and  dies, 
When  the  brown  bee  no  longer  seeks  the  clover, 
But  flies  away,  and  hides  in  his  honeyed  den, 
And  from  the  bleak  hills  cutting  winds  blow  over, 
Full  of  keen  darts — ah,  will  you  love  me  then  ? 

Or  is  it  but  the  passion  heat  of  Summer, 

That  you  mistake  for  love  within  your  heart  ? 
And  will  not  Winter,  that  unwelcome  comer, 


SHELLS. 


143 


With  his  cold,  scornful  sneers,  make  it  depart  ? 

Have  not  the  subtle  odors  of  the  flower? 

Drugged  you,  and  made  you  drunk  with  rare  perfumes  ? 
And  when  the  winter  crashes  through  the  bowers, 

Will  not  your  love  fade,  with  the  fading  blooms  ? 


If  so,  I will  not  listen  to  your  wooing ; 

And  I will  turn  from  words  and  glances  sweet. 
Because  I will  not  hear  a drunkard’s  sueing — 
Drunken  with  rose-scents,  and  the  summer  heat. 
But  if  you  woo  me,  in  sound  mind,  and  reason, 

And  can  convince  me  fully  it  is  so, 

And  that  your  love  will  last  through  any  season, 
Why  then,  my  answer  will  not  quite  be — No. 

1870. 


IF  YOU  HAD  BEEN  TRUE. 

Love,  in  the  glow  of  the  sunset, 

I have  been  thinking  of  you. 

Thinking  what  you  might  have  made  me, 
If  you  had  been  constant  and  true. 

You  know  I built  wonderful  castles, 

And  you  had  a part  in  them  all ; 

But  you  cheated  me,  Love,  you  remember, 
And  down  fell  each  beautiful  wall. 


144 


SHELLS. 


Well,  you  see  I lost  faith  in  all  women; — 

The  very  worst  thing  I could  do. 

Thought  they  were  all  of  one  pattern, 

And  that  was  inconstant,  untrue. 

I know  it  was  but  a mad  fancy : 

Know  women  are  truer  than  men. 

But  I wish  I had  found  it  out  sooner, 

Or  could  live  my  life  over  again. 

For  you  see  I have  wasted  my  manhood ; 

I don’t  really  care  to  tell  how. 

And  if  I could  live  it  all  over, 

I think  I could  better  it  now. 

I would  marry  some  nice  little  woman — 

Some  other,  if  I couldn’t  get  you. 

And  I would  be  tender  and  faithful, 

And  she  would  be  constant  and  true. 

1870. 


AFLOA  T. 

Once  there  was  a boat,  locked  fast  to  a shore, 
But  rust  ate  the  chain,  day  by  day, 

And  the  boat  was  loosened  more  and  more, 

As  the  fastenings  slipped  away. 

Yet,  any  day,  an  outstretched  hand, 

Could  have  caught,  and  locked  it  again  to  land. 


SHELLS . 


145 


But  never  a hand  was  stretched  to  save, 

And  the  boat  at  last  was  free ; 

And  shot  like  an  arrow  over  the  wave, 

And  drifted  out  mid-sea. 

And  never,  oh  never,  across  the  main, 

Will  the  boat  to  the  shore  be  brought  again. 

So  was  my  heart,  love — linked  to  thine  ; 

But  neglect  ate  the  chains  away  : 

Yet  a tender  word  love,  I opine, 

Would  have  saved  it,  any  day. 

Ay  ! a tender  word,  said  first  or  last, 

Would  have  mended  the  chain,  and  held  it  fast. 

But  the  word  was  lacking  : and  so  my  heart, 
Slipped  from  its  chains,  like  the  boat. 

And  then  as  the  last  link  fell  apart, 

It  sped  o’er  the  waves — afloat. 

Nor  pleading  hands,  nor  words,  you  see, 

Brings  the  boat  to  shore,  or  my  heart  to  thee. 


ROSES  AND  LILIES. 

Roses  and  Lilies,  both  are  sweet ; 

Lily  and  Rose,  both  are  fair; 

But  which  to  gather  for  mine  alway, 

Which  to  gather,  and  keep,  and  wear, 

10 


146 


SHELLS. 


That  is  the  queston  that  bothers  me, 
For  I cannot  wear  them  both,  you  see. 


Rose  is  the  brightest  and  blithest  of  girls  : 

I could  lay  my  heart  at  her  tiny  feet, 
And  gaze  forever  in  those  dark  eyes, 

And  kiss  forever  those  lips  so  sweet. 

And  holding  her  soft,  white,  clinging  hand, 
Dreamily  float  into  Eden  land. 

And  Lily — Lily,  my  ocean  pearl, 

So  sweetly  tender,  so  moonlight  fair, 

I could  float  to  heaven  upon  her  smile, 
And  kiss  forever  her  silken  hair, 

That  droppeth  down,  like  a golden  veil 
Over  her  cheek,  and  brow — snow  pale. 

Lilies  and  Roses — both  are  fair  : 

Rose,  or  Lily,  which  shall  it  be  ? 

I love  them  both  with  my  heart  of  hearts, 
But  I cannot  wed  them  both,  you  see. 
Dark-eyed  Rose,  my  winsome  girl — 
Moon-faced  Lily,  my  ocean  pearl. 


1870. 


SHELLS . 


147 


IN  HEAVEN  WITH  YOU. 

Tis  said,  when  we  shall  go  across  the  river, 

Whose  bridge  is  death,  and  gain  the  other  side, 
There  in  that  land,  with  God,  the  mighty  Giver, 

The  heart  shall  evermore  be  satisfied. 

And  yet,  sometimes  I cannot  help  but  wonder, 

How  I can  live  in  heaven  without  your  love  ; 

How  live,  rejoicing,  through  all  time,  I ponder, 

And  not  have  you,  even  with  God  above. 

We  bear  such  things  on  earth,  for  we  remember 
That  life  is  but  a little  span,  at  best. 

Its  passion  summer,  but  precedes  December, 

And  in  the  grave,  we  say,  there  will  be  rest. 

But  after  death,  time  stretches  with  no  limit : 

Your  love,  no  time  can  ever  bring  to  me. 

Is  heaven  so  bright  this  shadow  can  not  dim  it  ? 

It  seems  so  long — that  strange  Eternity. 

How  could  my  heart,  and  soul,  change  so  completely 
That  I should  never  think  of  this  up  there  ? 

But  in  the  angel  choruses  join  sweetly, 

Nor  e\er  feel  this  gnawing  grief,  and  care. 


148 


SHELLS. 


How  vast  God's  lore ! how  vain  the  skill  of  mortal ! 

He  did  not  mean  that  we  should  understand, 
Until  our  feet  had  crossed  the  shining  portal, 

The  things  so  deep,  and  fathomless,  and  grand. 

And  He  has  made  a heaven — a place  most  holy, 

For  His  redeemed  to  sometime  enter  in. 

And  there  is  room  for  all  the  meek  and  lowly, 

Whose  faith,  through  sorrow  hath  washed  out  all  sin. 

And  I believe,  when  we  shall  cross  the  river, 

Whose  bridge  is  death,  and  reach  the  other  side, 
There  in  that  land,  with  God  the  gracious  Giver, 

Our  hearts  shall  evermore  be  satisfied, 

1869. 


I'HOU  DOST  NOT  KNOW. 

Thou  dost  not  know  it ! but  to  hear 
One  word  of  praise  from  thee, 

There  is  no  pain  I would  not  bear — 

No  task  too  great  for  me. 

My  hands  could  tireless  toil  all  day, 

My  feet  could  tireless  run, 

If  at  the  close  thy  lips  would  say, 

“ Brave,  noble  heart,  well  done.” 


SHELLS. 


149 


Thou  dost  not  know  it ! but  to  win 
Approval  from  thine  eyes, 

My  soul  has  conquered  many  a sin, 

And  conquering,  neared  tee  skies. 

And  though  the  reward  may  not  be  given, 
In  all  my  earthly  days, 

I feel  that  after  death — in  heaven, 

Thy  lips  will  give  me  praise. 

Thou  dost  not  know — may  never  know, 
That  all  I strive  to  be, 

All  things  praiseworthy  that  I do, 

I strive,  and  do,  for  thee. 

And  though  I seldom  see  thy  face, 

Or  touch  thy  hand,  my  friend, 

Those  meetings  are  the  means  of  grace, 
That  help  me  to  the  end. 

Thou  dost  not  know  that  thy  grand  life 
Has  been  my  beacon  light. 

I aim  to  conquer  in  the  strife, 

That  I may  reach  thy  height. 

I strive  to  live,  so  that  my  feet 
May  walk  the  fields  most  fair, 

For  the  after-life,  seems,  oh  ! so  sweet, 
Because  thou  wilt  be  there. 

Thou  dost  not  know  how  brave  and  strong 
A woman’s  heart  can  be. 


150 


SHELLS. 


But  few  could  hide  so  well  and  long 
What  mine  has  hid  from  thee. 

So  well,  that  should  this  idyl  chance 
To  meet  thine  eye,  my  friend, 

Thou’d  scan  it  with  a careless  glance, 

Nor  dream  to  whom  ’twas  penned. 

1872. 


A GOLDEN  YEAR. 

Linger,  linger,  oh  royal  year  ! 

For  I grieve  to  see  you  dying. 

Rest  on  the  hilltops — loiter  near  ; 

Wait,  O Time,  in  your  flying. 

For  never,  in  all  the  twice  ten  years, 

You  have  brought  to  build  my  twenty, 
Never  was  one  so  free  from  tears — 

So  overflowing  with  plenty. 

Filled  to  the  brim  with  the  purest  draughts, 
That  I sip  in  fearless  pleasure  *; 

While  an  unseen  spirit  watches  and  laughs, 
And  again  refills  the  measure. 

My  brightest  dreams,  and  my  fondest  hopes, 
The  year  has  gathered  together, 

And  right  bountifully  they  have  come  to  me, 
From  the  Spring  to  the  Autumn  weather. 


SHELLS . 


151 


The  rarest  of  flowers,  subtle  and  sweet, 

That  grew  in  the  world  Ideal, 

Have  dropped  their  seeds  in  the  soil  at  my  feet, 
And  blossomed  among  the  Real. 

And  Love,  like  a rose,  still  blossoms  and  blows, 
Passion-hearted,  yet  tender. 

And  my  path  is  strewn  with  the  glories  of  June, 
And  Pm  hedged  about  with  its  splendor. 

Care  flew  over  the  hills,  one  day, 

And  I sang,  as  he  swift  retreated ; 

And  Hope  took  his  crown,  and  Joy  settled  down, 
On  the  throne  where  Care  had  been  seated. 

Contentment  hedged  me  all  round  about, 

And  Love  built  his  blazing  fire ; 

And  Happiness  poured  his  treasures  out, 

And  left  me  with  no  desire. 

I have  walked  breast  high  in  a sea  of  bliss  : 

I have  loved  my  God,  and  my  brother. 

There  never  before  was  a year  like  this — 

There  never  can  be  another. 

Linger,  loiter,  a little  while, 

For  I grieve  to  see  you  dying  ! 

But  even  in  grief,  I can  only  smile, 

For  my  heart  is  too  light  for  sighing. 

December,  1870. 


152 


SHELLS. 


FORESHAD  O WED. 

My  life  has  been  a summer  day  complete, 
Teeming  with  pleascres,  tender,  pure,  and  sweet. 
But  tiny  clouds  have  ever  dimmed  the  sky, 

And  they  have  quickly  passed,  and  floated  by. 


Oh,  seldom  in  this  thorny  world  of  ours, 

Is  mortal’s  pathway  so  bestrewn  with  flowers. 
Fragrant  and  fair,  they  ever  blow  and  bloom, 
Untouched  by  chilling  frosts,  and  wintry  gloom. 
And  I thank  God,  for  all  his  tenderness, 

And  from  my  very  soul  adore,  and  bless 
Him  who  has  cast  my  lines  in  pleasant  ways, 
And  crowned  with  joy  and  happiness  my  days. 


But  sometimes,  though  the  sun  shines  clear  and  bright, 
And  all  the  world  seems  full  of  joy  and  light, 

A nameless  shadow,  none  but  I can  see, 

Falls  on  my  heart,  hushing  its  melody. 

A nameless,  voiceless  shadow ; but  I know 
It  tells  of  future  agony  and  woe. 

Some  mighty  sorrow,  vague  and  undefined, 

But  dark,  and  awful,  waits  for  me,  behind 

That  shadowy  cloud.  Something  of  woe  and  tears — 

Of  grief,  and  anguish,  is  the  future  years. 


SHELLS . 


153 


It  floats  away,  and  I rejoice  again, 

With  all  my  warm  young  heart  untouched  by  pain. 
But  ever  and  anon  I see  it  loom, 

Over  my  life,  and  feel  its  awful  gloom. 

Oh  God  ! I know  not  what  is  hidden  there. 

But  give  me  strength  to  suffer  and  to  bear. 

Oh  guide  my  soul ! and  teach  me  how  to  pray, 

And  make  my  spirit  stronger  every  day. 

Upon  Thy  mighty  arm,  oh  ! let  me  rest, 

And  lean.  And  when  Thou  deemest  best, 

Reveal,  my  Father,  what  is  hid  behind 
The  nameless  shadow,  vague,  and  undefined. 

1869. 


FORTUNE'S  WHEEL. 

My  Love  was  a poor  man’s  daughter, 
And  I was  a poor  man’s  son. 

And  oft  we  walked  on  the  sea  shore, 
When  the  work  of  the  day  was  done. 
Hand  in  hand,  on  the  gleaming  strand, 
And  our  two  hearts  beat  as  one. 

My  Love  was  meek,  and  gentle, 

And  she  was  wondrous  fair  ; 

With  hazel  dyes  in  her  slumbrous  eyes, 


154 


SHELLS. 


And  chestnut  shades  in  her  hair. 

And  we  raked  hay  on  the  meadow, 

And  I gave  my  heart  in  her  care. 

But  the  great,  notched  wheel  of  Fortune, 
Kept  turning  on  and  on. 

And  she  was  a rich  man’s  daughter, 

And  I was  a poor  man’s  son. 

And  she  had  a score  of  lovers,  or  more. 
But  I was  the  favored  one. 


And  I passed  hard  by  her  window, 
Nor  turned  my  face  to  see 
The  lady  fair,  with  gems  in  her  hair, 
As  fine  as  fine  could  be. 

Though  I knew  her  heart  was  dying 
For  just  one  word  from  me. 


My  Love  grew  pale  as  the  lily, 

And  faded  day  by  day, 

And  I passed  by,  and  heard  her  sigh, 
And  turned  my  face  away. 

For  I was  proud  as  the  proudest — 
And  her  gold  between  us  lay. 


And  the  great,  notched  wheel  of  Fortune 
Kept  rolling  on  and  on. 

And  she  was  a poor  man’s  daughter, 


SHELLS . 


155 


And  I was  a rich  man’s  son. 

And  maids  of  grace  smiled  in  my  face, 

But  I saw  only  one. 

I found  my  love  in  the  cottage, 

Where  first  I sought  her  side. 

And  I shall  not  tell  how  I wooed — but  well, 
For  she  had  not  my  pride. 

And  I gave  my  heart  in  her  keeping, 

And  won  her  for  my  bride. 

1870. 


SEARCHING. 

These  quiet  autumn  days, 

My  soul,  like  Noah’s  dove,  on  airy  wings 
Goes  out,  and  searches  for  the  hidden  things, 
Beyond  the  hills  of  haze. 

* 

With  mournful,  pleading  cries 
Above  the  waters  of  the  voiceless  sea 
That  laps  the  shores  of  broad  Eternity, 

Day  after  day  it  flies. 

Searching,  but  all  in  vain, 

For  some  stray  leaf  that  it  may  light  upon, 
And  read  the  future  as  the  days  agone — 

Its  pleasure  and  its  pain. 


156 


SHELLS. 


Listening,  patiently, 

For  some  voice  speaking  from  the  mighty  deep, 
Revealing  all  the  secrets  it  doth  keep, 

In  silence,  there  for  me. 

Come  back  and  wait ! my  soul, 

Day  after  day  thy  search  has  been  in  vain, 
Voiceless  and  silent  o’er  the  future’s  plain 
Its  mystic  waters  roll. 


God  seeing,  knoweth  best, 

And  in  his  time  the  waters  shall  subside, 

And  thou  shalt  know  what  lies  beneath  the  tide. 
Then  wait,  my  soul,  and  rest. 

1869. 


BAFT. 

In  the  warm  yellow  smile  of  the  morning, 
She  stands  at  the  lattice  pane, 

And  watches  the  strong  young  binders 
Stride  down  to  the  fields  of  grain  ; 

And  she  counts  the  over  and  over 
As  they  pass  the  cottage  door : 

Are  they  six  ? she  counts  them  seven — 
Are  they  seven  ? she  counts  one  more* 


SHELLS. 


157 


When  the  sun  swings  high  in  the  heavens, 
And  the  reapers  go  shouting  home, 

She  calls  to  the  household,  saying 

“Make  haste!  for  the  binders  have  come! 
And  Johnnie  will  want  his  dinner — 

He  was  always  a hungry  child ;” 

And  they  answer  “Yes,  it  is  waiting  ;” 
Then  tell  you  “her  brain  is  wild.” 

Again,  in  the  hush  of  the  evening, 

When  the  work  of  the  day  is  done, 

And  the  binders  go  singing  homeward  ' 

In  the  last  red  rays  of  the  sun, 

She  will  sit  at  the  threshold  waiting, 

And  her  withered  face  lights  with  joy  : 
“Come,  Johnnie,”  she  says,  as  they  pass  her, 
“Come  in  to  the  house,  my  boy.” 

Five  summers  ago,  her  Johnnie 
Went  out  in  the  smile  o’  the  morn, 
Singing  across  the  meadow, 

Striding  down  through  the  corn  : 

He  towered  above  the  binders 
Walking  on  either  side, 

And  the  mother’s  heart  within  her 
Swelled  with  exultant  pride. 

For  he  was  the  light  of  the  household; 

His  brown  eyes  were  wells  of  truth, 


158 


SHELLS . 


And  his  face  was  the  face  of  the  morning, 
Lit  with  its  pure,  fresh  youth  ; 

And  his  song  rang  out  from  the  hill-tops, 
Like  the  mellow  bl  st  of  a horn. 

As  he  strode  o’er  the  fresh  shorn  meadows, 
And  down  through  the  rows  of  corn. 

But  hushed  were  the  voices  of  singing, 
Hushed  by  the  presence  of  death, 

As  back  to  the  cottage  they  bore  him — 

In  the  noontide’s  scorching  breath. 

For  the  heat  of  the  sun  had  slain  him, 

Had  smitten  the  heart  in  his  breast, 

And  he  who  had  towered  above  them 
Lay  lower  than  all  the  rest. 

The  grain  grows  ripe  in  the  sunshine, 

And  the  summers  ebb  and  flow, 

And  the  binders  stride  to  their  labor, 

And  sing  as  they  come  and  go  ; 

But  never  again  from  the  hill-tops 
Echoes  the  voice  like  a horn  ; 

Never  up  from  the  meadows, 

Never  back  from  the  corn. 

Yet  the  poor,  crazed  brain  of  the  mother 
Fancies  him  always  near  ; 

She  is  blest  in  her  strange  delusion, 


SHELLS. 


159 


For  she  knoweth  no  pain,  no  fear  : 

And  always  she  counts  the  binders 
As  they  pass  her  cottage  door ; 

Are  they  six,  she  counts  them  seven  : 

Are  they  seven,  she  counts  one  more. 

1870. 


TRUST. 

Once  Pain  beat  on  my  heart, 
And  well-nigh  killed  it. 

I shuddered  at  the  smart, 

But  said  “ God  willed  it.” 
And  down  and  down  again, 
With  awful  power, 

Fell  the  great  hand  of  Pain, 
Hour  after  hour. 


While,  like  a mighty  flail, 

The  fierce  blows  hurt  me, 

I cried  “ God  doth  prevail : 

He’ll  not  desert  me.” 

Blow  upon  cruel  blow, 

The  great  hand  gave  me, 
Yet  I cried  “ He  doth  know, 
And  he  will  save  me.” 


SHELLS. 


I did  not  loudly  cry, 

And  ask  God’s  reason ; 

I knew  He’d  tell  me  why, 

In  his  own  season. 

“ In  His  good  time,”  I said, 

In  trusting  blindness, 

And  I was  not  afraid 
To  wait  his  kindness. 

I did  not  trust  in  vain. 

God  drew  me  nearer, 

And  whispered  “ Smile  again  ! 

The  way  is  clearer.” 

And  lo  ! my  mortal  sight 
Could  reach  to  heaven, 

My  faith  dispelled  the  night, 
And  light  was  given. 


THE  COMMON  LINK. 

When  on  the  crowded  thoroughfare, 
Amidst  the  motley  throng  I stray, 

In  all  the  stranger  faces  there, 

I meet  and  pass  from  day  to  day, 
Whether  the  face  be  young,  or  old, 

Or  wreathed  in  smiles,  or  calm,  or  cold, 


SHELLS . 


161 


On  every  brow  I trace  some  line 
That  links  the  strangers’  heart  to  mine'. 

Though  a proud  beauty  rustles  by, 

With  haughty  mien,  I smile  and  say, 
“You  have  a heart-ache — so  have  I : 

We  both  are  hiding  it  to-day. 

Though  you  are  rich,  I am  poor, 

We  both  have  entered  sorrow’s  door ; 
Grief  comes  alike  to  you  and  me, 

So  we  are  of  one  family.” 

The  richest  nabob  that  I meet, 

The  poorest  delver  that  I see, 

Youth  and  old  age  upon  the  street, 

Are  one  and  all  the  same  to  me. 

No  heart  that  beats,  but  has  its  grief ; 

Nor  wealth,  nor  youth,  gives  full  relief ; 
And  through  the  tears  that  sometimes  fall 
I claim  relationship  to  all. 

So  poor,  and  rich,  and  high,  and  low, 

I meet  upon  this  common  plain. 
Though  far  and  wide  our  paths  may  lie, 
We  entertain  the  same  guest — Pain. 
The  subtle  threads  of  this  strange  cord, 
Draw  me  to  mankind,  and  the  Lord, 

And  through  the  sorrows  heaven  sends, 

I hold  all  men  to  be  my  friends. 


11 


1869. 


162 


SHELLS. 


BURIED  TO-DAY. 

Cold  is  the  wind,  that  blows  lip  from  the  river. 

Cold  is  the  blast  that  sweeps  over  the  plain. 

In  the  bleak  breath  of  the  morning  I shiver — 

Shiver  and  weep,  in  my  desolate  pain. 

She  was  so  fair — like  the  beautiful  lily — 

Fair,  oh  too  fair  to  be  hidden  away. 

And  the  grave  is  so  dark,  and  so  damp,  and  so  chilly, 
And  she — oh  my  love  ! — will  be  buried  to-day. 

White  is  the  snow  that  is  heaped  on  the  meadow, 
Whiter  the  face,  in  this  desolate  room. 

Low  in  the  valley  lurk  darkness  and  shadow — 

Low  lies  my  heart,  in  its  sorrow  and  gloom. 

How  the  spades  scrape,  on  the  sods  they  are  breaking, 
Breaking,  and  cutting  the  snowdrifts  away. 

How  the  men  bend  to  the  grave  they  are  making, 
Where  she — oh  my  love  ! — will  be  buried  to-day. 

Thick  are  the  walls ! but  the  bleak  wind  will  enter, 
And  chill  her  through  all  her  long  slumber,  I know. 

Rich  are  her  robes  ! but  the  merciless  Winter 

Will  beat  on  her  breast,  with  its  tempests  of  snow. 

Oh  she  was  guarded,  and  shielded  from  sorrow— 

Kept  from  the  shadows,  and  darkness,  alway. 

But  she  will  lie,  as  the  beggar  to-morrow — 

My  love — oh  my  love  ! — that  is  buried  to-day. 

1870. 


SHELLS. 


163 


WHEN  I DIE. 

Often,  when  I am  alone, 

Thinking  of  the  “ things  unseen 
Things  to  our  eyes  never  shown, 
Hidden  by  the  veil  between 
This  world  and  eternity — 

To  be  lifted  by  and  by, 

Oft  the  thought  has  come  to  me, 

“ Who  will  robe  me,  when  I die.” 

When  the  night-time  swiftly  nears, 
And  my  last  sleep  comes  apace, 
And  the  mourners’  bitter  tears 
Fall  above  my  dying  face  ; 

When  I pass  out,  white  and  still, 
Where  no  mortal  hand  can  save, 
Out  beyond  the  reach  of  skill — 

Who  will  robe  me,  for  the  grave  ? 

When  my  work  is  all  complete, 

And  I have  no  more  to  do, 

And  I pass  with  willing  feet, 

From  the  old  life,  to  the  new; 
While  my  dear  ones  numb  with  woe, 
Weep  above  my  pulseless  heart, 
Who,  of  all  the  friends  I know, 

Who  will  robe  me  to  depart  ? 


164 


SHELLS . 


Who  will  fold  my  pallid  hands, 

On  my  quiet  bosom  ; close 
Eyes  that  gaze  on  other  lands. 

Clothe  me  for  my  last  repose  ? 
When  soft  fingers  toy  and  play 
With  my  tresses  tenderly, 

Oft  the  thought  has  come  to  me, 

“ Will  these  robe  me,  when  I die  ?” 


THE  UNSEEN  THORN 

“ Cinnamon  Roses  !”  she  said,  <£  how  fair,” 
Holding  them  out  in  her  finger-tips. 

“ Yes,”  I whispered,  “ the  hue  they  wear 
Was  borrowed  out  of  thy  cheeks,  and  lips. 
Beautiful  roses  ! and  each  supposes 
Itself  replete,  with  thy  graces,  Sweet. 

Fair  they  may  be,  yet  not  like  thee — 

See  ! they  fade  at  thy  smile,  dear  maid  !” 


“ Give  me  a Rose  !”  and  nothing  loth, 

She  tossed  a beautiful  bud  to  me. 

But  I gathered  the  maid  and  the  flowers  both — 
Close  to  my  breast.  “ Not  that,  but  thee  ! 

I most  am  wanting.  The  dear  face  haunting 
My  heart  each  hour,  is  the  sweetest  flower.” 


SHELLS . 


165 


And  I gathered  close  the  face  like  a rose, 

And  kissed  her  lips  and  her  finger-tips. 

The  leaves,  from  the  roses  in  her  hand, 

Dropped  one  by  one  : but  the  thorn  was  left. 
(Fool,  that  I did  not  understand.) 

Cheated,  and  jilted,  and  all  bereft, 

Of  the  fair,  false  blossom  I held  on  my  bosom 
I stand  to-day.  But  the  thorn  alway 
Pierces  my  heart  like  a cruel  dart. 

The  rose  is  dead  : and  her  love — has  fled. 

1870. 


FATHER  AND  CHILD. 

Th  New  Year  wedded  the  winter — 

Winter,  the  harsh  old  king  ! 

Whose  head  was  a snow-capped  mountain — 
Whose  breath  was  the  North- Wind’s  sting. 
But  he  wooed  and  wedded  the  maiden, 

And  gave  her  a robe  of  snow ; 

And  hung  on  her  breast  bright  jewels, 

With  a lace-work  of  frost  below. 

And  the  days  flowed  on  like  a river ; 

And  the  mother  looked  up  and  smiled, 
When  she  laid  in  the  arms  of  Winter, 


166 


SHELLS . 


Their  beautiful  first-born  child. 

And  what  shall  we  name  our  infant  ?” 

She  said  to  the  harsh  old  king. 

And  the  old  man  kissed  her  softly, 

And  said,  “ we  will  call  her  Spring.” 

“And  how  shall  we  robe  our  darling  ? 

I have  always  dressed  in  white  ! 

But  she  must  be  clothed  in  colors — 

With  something  soft,  and  bright.” 

And  the  old  man  smiled  and  answered, 

“We  will  give  her  a robe  of  green ; 

Trimmed  with  the  fairest  flowers, 

And  buds,  that  were  ever  seen  !” 

And  he  kissed  the  beautiful  infant, 

Softly  on  cheek,  and  brow, 

And  he  clasped  the  hand  of  the  mother, 

And  said  “ I am  going  now  ! 

The  days  of  my  life  were  numbered, 

And  the  last  is  slipping  away. 

But  I leave  you  to  guard  our  darling, 

Wherever  her  steps  shall  stray.” 

1870. 


UNDER  THE  MOON 

Under  the  moon  two  lovers  walked — 

The  silver  moon — the  round,  full  moon  ; 


SHELLS. 


167 


Under  its  beams  they  softly  talked. 

Of  youth,  and  love,  and  June. 

And  they  plighted  their  vows  in  the  silvery  light, 

For  their  hearts,  like  the  moon,  were  full,  that  night. 

Under  the  moon  they  walked  again — 

The  setting  the  moon — the  waning  moon. 

And  scarcely  a word  was  said  by  the  twain. 

(Ah  moon,  you  set  too  soon.) 

For  love,  in  one  o’  the  hearts,  like  the  rim 

Of  the  waning  moon,  grew  faint,  and  dim. 

Under  the  skies  a maiden  stood — 

The  cold  night  skies — the  moonless  skies  : 

She  heard  the  owl  in  the  lonely  wood, 

And  she  heard  her  own  deep  sighs. 

“ Heart  and  skies  devoid  of  light ; 

Oh  God  !”  she  cried,  “what  a dreary  night !” 

Under  the  skies  is  a narrow  mound — 

The  watchful  skies — the  starry  skies. 

And  the  rays  of  the  moon,  so  full  and  round, 

Shine  down,  where  the  maiden  lies. 

And  they  shine  on  the  fickle  lover,  who 

Walks  with  another,  and  woos  anew. 


168 


SHELLS. 


SINGERS. 

The  sweetest  songs  that  were  ever  sung, 

And  those  that  please  the  best, 

Though  sorrow,  and  grief,  and  tears  were  wrung 
From  some  o’er-burdened  breast. 

Through  the  words  breathe  only  of  mirth,  and  bloom, 
And  the  strains  are  the  gladdest  and  lightest, 

Remember  that  after  a night  of  gloom, 

The  rays  of  the  sun  are  brightest. 

The  rain  must  fall,  ere  the  spring-time  grass 
Grows  tender,  and  green,  and  sweet. 

Through  the  pangs  of  travail  a soul  must  pass, 

Ere  a song  is  born  complete. 

After  a winter  of  storm,  and  snow, 

Blossom  the  buds  in  our  bowers  : 

After  a season  of  tears  and  woe, 

Blossom  the  poet’s  flowers. 

There  are  few  who  give  the  poet  a thought, 

When  they  read  the  pleasing  strain. 

There  are  few  who  know  that  a poem  is  wrought 
Through  sorrow,  and  tears,  and  pain. 

The  merriest  song,  and  the  blithest  lay, 

And  those  that  are  sweetest  and  gladdest, 

Are  woven  in  gloomy  and  cheerless  days, 

When  the  poet’s  heart  is  the  saddest. 


SHELLS . 


169 


TAKE  MY  HAND . 

I am  walking  in  the  darkness  : 

All  around  me  is  the  night. 

I am  groping  in  the  shadows, 

And  I cannot  see  the  light. 

Every  sunbeam  has  departed ; 

There  is  gloom  throughout  the  land. 

I am  fainting  by  the  wayside — 

Heavenly  Father,  take  my  hand. 

Oh,  the  paths  are  rough  and  thorny, 
That  my  weary  feet  have  trod. 

I am  bleeding — I am  dying, 

Take  me  by  the  hand,  O God ! 

Let  my  gloomy  way  be  lighted, 

By  the  glory  of  Thy  face  ! 

And  thy  broad  and  mighty  bosom, 

Let  it  be  my  resting  place. 

Through  this  awful  night  of  sorrow, 
Father,  let  me  hear  thy  voice. 

Teach  me  how  to  sing  in  anguish — 

How  to  suffer,  and  rejoice. 

Take  me  by  the  hand,  and  guide  me, 
Lead  me  in  the  better  way. 

Through  this  vale  of  storm,  and  tempest, 
To  the  land  of  perfect  day. 


170 


SHELLS . 


Strengthen  me  for  every  contest : 

Let  my  prayer  be  not  in  vain. 

I would  bless  thee  in  my  sorrow — 

I would  glory  in  my  pain. 

Make  my  spirit  white,  for  heaven  ! 

Let  my  soul  be  purified 
In  the  blood  that  flowed  so  freely, 

From  the  wound  in  Jesus’  side. 

Gird  my  soul,  oh  God,  for  battle  ! 

I am  weak,  O make  me  strong. 

Do  not  let  my  courage  falter, 

Though  the  strife  be  fierce,  and  long. 

And  upon  Thy  hand,  my  Father, 

Let  me  keep  a clinging  hold, 

Till  I cross  the  pearly  portal, 

To  the  city  built  of  gold. 

1869. 


DISINTERRED, 

[Written  after  the  attempt  of  Sensation  Lovers  to  prove  that 
Shakespeare’s  plays  were  written  by  Lord  Bacon.] 

Lo  ! here’s  another  corpse  exhumed  ! 

Another  Poet  disinterred  ! 

Sensation  cried,  “ Dig  up  the  grave, 

And  let  the  dust  be  hoed  and  stirred ; 

Ayd  bring  the  bones  of  Shakespeare  out ! 

’Twill  edify  the  throng,  no  doubt. 


SHELLS. 


171 


“ The  Byron  scandal  has  grown  old ! 

That  rare  tit-bit  is  flat,  and  stale. 

The  throng  is  gaping  for  more  food ! 

We  need  a new  sensation  tale. 

Old  Shakespeare  sleeps  too  well,  and  sound. 
Tear  off  the  shroud — dig  up  the  ground  ! 

“ We  have  exhumed  poor  ‘ Raven  Poe/ 
And  proved  beyond  the  shade  of  doubt, 
He  saw  no  raven,  after  all. 

Now  trot  the  bones  of  Shakespeare  out'! 
Byron,  and  Poe,  and  Shakespeare — good  ! 
Who  shall  we  serve  up  next  for  food  ?” 

And  who,  say  I,  oh  seers  ol  earth  ! 

What  corpse  comes  next  ? I daily  look 
To  see  if  some  sage  hasn’t  proved 

That  Jones,  or  Smith,  wrote  Lalla  Rook  ! 
Or  Blifkins  lent  his  brains  to  Moore — 

Who  was  a plagairst,  and  boor. 

Sensation,  keep  your  servants  out ; 

Let  them  be  watchful,  and  alert ! 

We’ll  need  a new  discovery  soon  : 

Tell  them  to  dig  about  the  dirt, 

And  tear  off  Keats’,  or  Shelly’s  shroud, 

To  please  and  edify  the  crowd. 


1870. 


172 


SHELLS . 


A LAWYERS  ROMANCE. 

Into  the  mellow  light  of  the  cloudless  autumn  day, 
Somehow,  the  vision  slips,  of  a landscape,  far  away, 
Wherever  I turn  my  eyes,  it  hovers  before  them  still, 

The  little,  vine-wreathed  cot,  on  the  southerly  slope  of  the 
hill, 

The  pasture  at  the  left,  the  ducks  a-swim  in  the  pond, 
And  the  straight,  green  rows  of  corn,  with  the  wheat  fields 
just  beyond, 

The  sloping  lawn  on  the  right,  that  is  always  seeming  to 
say 

To  the  lake  that  lies  below,  “ I will  meet  you  just  half 
way.” 

And  over  and  over  the  cot,  from  th’  ground  to  th’  mossy 
eaves, 

Cling,  and  twine,  and  clamber  the  vines,  with  their  dark, 
green  leaves ; 

The  little  mimic  garden,  with  its  simple  flowers  a-blow, 
Larkspur,  bleeding  hearts,  and  the  clumps  of  phlox,  like 
snow  ; 

Petunias,  red  and  white,  like  drooping  and  fragile  maids, 
Rose  trees  hanging  down,  with  roses  of  many  shades, 
Marigolds,  batchelor-buttons,  with  clusters  of  evergreen, 
On  the  two  trim  rows  of  beds,  with  the  narrow  path 
between, 


S HELLS. 


173 


And  the  setting  rays  of  the  sun,  lending  it  all  a flush, 

That  is  given  to  sunset  scenes,  by  the  heavenly  Artist’s 
brush. 

It  is  thus  it  rises  to-day,  and  hovers  before  my  eyes  ; 

I have  seen  it  softly  lit,  with  the  mornings’  sweet  surprise — 

I have  seen  it  when  the  dew  glistened  upon  the  grass — 

In  the  hush  of  the  summer  noon,  when  the  calm  lake  lay 
like  glass — 

In  the  ghostly  rays  o’  the  moon — in  the  quiet  of  the 
night — 

But  never  half  so  fair  as  under  that  sunset  light. 

Ah  ! foolish,  and  weak  old  heart,  must  you  live  it  over 
again  ? 

Why  reopen  the  book,  whose  final  page  was  Pain  ! 

But  the  picture  rises  before  me,  rises,  and  hovers  there, 

And  the  glory  of  the  sunset  falls  on  the  maiden’s  hair ; 

The  maid,  who  stood  in  that  garden  ten  long  summers 
ago, 

Stood  by  the  “bleeding  hearts,”  and  the  clusters  of  phlox, 
like  snow. 

Ah  ! musty  and  dusty  old  heart,  you  were  younger  and 
lighter  then  ! 

Yet  not  young,  for  now  you  have  beat,  two  score  years 
and  ten  ; 

But  that  one  summer  holds  the  essence  of  all  my  life, 

The  forty  years  before  were  records  of  toil  and  strife, 


174 


SHELLS. 


And  I opened  the  book  again,  when  my  holiday  was  o’er, 
And  began  at  the  page  I left,  and  plodded  on  as  before. 


Weary  of  law,  of  work,  of  the  dust,  and  heat  of  th’  town, 

111,  in  body  and  mind,  my  heart  went  longing  down 

To  the  cool,  green  country  meadows;  and  I followed  it 
one  day, 

And  there  in  the  vine- wreathed  cot,  let  the  summer  slip 
away  ; 

Ay  ! and  I let  the  heart  I had  guarded  forty  years — 

The  heart  that  had  never  been  stirred  by  love’s  wild 
hopes  and  fears — 

I let  it  slip  away  to  the  maid  with  amber  eyes, 

With  tresses  dusky  brown,  and  cheeks  like  th’  sunset 
skies’ 

Ah  ! secret  I tried  to  keep,  ah  ! love  I strove  to  hide  ! 

But  in  the  July  twilight,  I lingered  at  her  side, 

And,  leaning  by  the  rose  tree,  her  tresses  swept  my 
cheek  ! 

“Ah  ! sweet,”  I cried  in  a tremor,  “ I love  you — let  me 
speak  !” 

And  then,  somehow  the  love  I had  thought  to  guard 
untold 

Broke  loose  from  the  fetters  of  silence,  and  gathered 
strength,  and  rolled 


SHELLS. 


175 


Forth  in  a torrent  of  words ; and  I knelt  at  the  maiden’s 
feet, 

Crying,  “ Grant  me  a token,  as  yea  or  nay,  my  sweet.” 


And  then,  with  a shy,  sweet  smile,  she  gave  me  her 
finger-tips, 

And,  bolder  grown,  I said,  as  I raised  them  to  my  lips, 

“ ’Twere  a lesser  love  than  mine,  that  were  wholly 
satisfied, 

With  a touch  of  your  finger  tips,  and  farther  than  that 
denied.” 

The  curtains  of  her  eyes  dropped  low,  and  I drew  her 
close, 

And  over  and  over  again  kissed  the  sweet  face  like  a 
rose. 

I said,  “ I have  pleaded  a case,  and  won  it ; do  you  see  ? 

And  now  I take  my  pay ! for  a lawyer  must  have  his  fee.” 


Ah  ! summer  over  and  gone,  into  the  echoless  past ! 

Oh  ! August  afternoons,  that  drifted  by  too  fast  ! 

Oh  ! rows  on  the  quiet  lake,  in  the  blissful  moonlit  eves, 
When  the  harvesters  sang  their  song,  carrying  home  the 
sheaves. 


I can  hear  it  even  now,  the  voices,  strong  ond  sweet, 
Over  the  noise,  and  rattle,  and  roar  of  the  busy  street, 


176 


SHELLS. 


I can  see  the  face  of  Mable,  full  lipped,  ripe,  and  fair, 

With  the  amber  tints  in  her  eyes,  and  the  dusky  shades 
on  her  hair. 

Into  my  life’s  September,  came  the  beauty  I missed  in 
J une, 

The  glory  lost  in  the  morning,  came  in  the  afternoon. 

The  dream  that  belongs  to  youth,  golden — complete — 
sublime, 

I dreamed  not,  in  the  spring,  but  in  the  autumn  time. 

Ah  ! and  the  young  heart  wakes  from  the  dream  of  love, 
and  then, 

Suffers  a little  while,  and  dreams  it  over  again. 

But  never  a second  draught  of  the  wine  of  love  for  me, 

I drank  it  all  at  the  first,  and  shattered  the  cup,  you  see. 

I woke  from  the  golden  dream  when  I saw  her  on  the 
breast 

Of  a fair-faced,  beardless  youth — when  I saw  his  red  lips 
pressed 

Over  and  over  again  to  the  mouth,  like  a rose  half  blown, 

And  I heard  her  whispered  words — “ My  only  love,  my 
own.” 

Hush  ! censure  them  not  ! His  heart  she  toyed  with 
even  as  mine. 

He  suffered  keenly,  I think,  then  knelt  at  another’s 
shrine. 


SHELLS. 


177 


And  she — speak  softly  of  her — she  died : she  is  only  dust ; 

Died  repentant — forgiven — and  entered  Heaven — I trust. 

And  I — well  my  years  drift  on,  as  my  two-score  drifted 
away, 

Only  at  times,  this  memory  comes,  as  it  came  to-day, 

Thrilling  me  through  and  through — and  I live  it  all  once 
more, 

Though  I shut  the  past  away,  and  have  striven  to  lock 
the  door. 

Have  I lost  all  faith  in  woman?  Nay,  surely  not : should 
we 

Say  that  every  heart  is  false  because  one  proves  to  be  ! 

Because  I find  a worm  in  the  petals  of  a rose, 

Shall  I say  that  worms  are  coiled  in  every  flower  that 
blows  ? 


Nay,  there  are  constant  woman,  and  women  as  sweet  and 
fair 

As  she  with  the  amber  eyes,  and  the  shadows  on  her  hair. 
But  I found  the  wine  of  love  so  late,  that  when  I quaffed 
I held  none  in  reserve,  but  drank  it  all  at  a draught. 

The  future  ? I do  not  dread : it  is  neither  dark  nor  bright. 
I have  had  my  day  of  joy — I have  had  my  sorrow’s  night. 
God  helped  me  through  the  last — I do  not  know  just 
how, 


178 


SHELLS . 


But  He  answered  when  I called  Him,  and  why  should  I 
doubt  him  now  ? 

Nor  mortal  eye  can  see,  nor  mortal  heart  conceive, 

What  He  holdeth  in  His  kingdom  for  the  faithful  that 
believe. 

But  I sometimes  think  the  dream  that  was  broken  here 
for  me, 

I shall  finish  and  complete  by  the  shining  Jasper  sea. 

1870. 


A SUMMER  DAY. 

There’s  a gaping  rent  in  the  curtain 
That  longs  for  a needle  and  thread, 
There’s  a garment  that  ought  to  be  finished, 
And  a book  that  wants  to  be  read. 
There’s  a letter  that  needs  to  be  answered, 
There  are  clothes  to  fold  away, 

And  I know  these  tasks  are  waiting, 

And  ought  to  be  done  to-day. 

But  how  can  I mend  the  curtain, 

While  watching  this  silvery  cloud, 

And  how  can  I finish  th’  garment, 

When  the  robin  calls  so  loud. 

And  the  whispering  trees  are  telling 


SHELLS . 


179 


Such  stories  above  my  head, 

That  I can  but  lie  and  listen, 

And  the  book  is  all  unread. 

If  I try  to  write  the  letter, 

I am  sure  one  half  the  words 
Will  be  in  the  curious  language 
Of  my  chattering  friends,  the  birds. 
The  lilacs  bloom  in  the  sunshine, 

The  roses  nod  and  smile, 

And  the  clothes  that  ought  to  be  folded 
And  ironed,  must  wait  awhile. 

I lie  in  the  locust  shadows, 

And  gaze  at  the  summer  sky, 

Bidding  the  cares  and  toubles 
And  trials  of  life  pass  by. 

The  beautiful  locust  blossoms 
Are  falling  about  my  feet, 

And  the  dreamy  air  is  laden 

With  their  odors  rare  and  sweet. 

The  honey-bees  hum  in  the  clover, 

The  grasses  rise  and  fall, 

The  robin  stops  and  listens, 

As  he  hears  the  brown  thrush  call. 
The  humming-bird  sings  to  me  softly, 
The  butterfly  flits  away — 


180 


SHELLS . 


Oh  what  could  be  sweeter  than  living, 
This  beautiful  summer  day  ! 


1869. 


SONG  AND  MAID. 

A poet  toiled  over  a song,  for  the  maid 
Who  had  plighted  her  troth  to  him. 

And  he  leaned,  and  wrote,  in  the  gathering  shade, 
Till  his  eyes  were  dim. 

But  the  maiden  strolled  on  the  distant  beach, 

And  listed  another’s  tender  speech. 


The  poet  sang  of  her  love-lit  eye, 

So  softly,  and  deeply  blue ; 

How  its  soulful  glance — half  arch,  half  shy, 

He  only  knew. 

But  the  maid’s  blue  eyes  were  shedding  their  light 
On  theTace  of  a tall,  dark  man,  that  night. 

He  sang  of  her  hand,  so  white,  and  fair, 

And  soft  as  a hand  could  be. 

“And  the  ring,”  he  sang,  “ that  is  gleaming  there 
Binds  her  to  me,” 


SHELLS. 


181 


But  the  maid  to  her  tall  companion  said, 

“ This  ring  ? ’ tis  the  gift  of  a friend,  now  dead.” 

He  sang  of  her  ripe  and  dewy  lips — 

“ They  are  roses  before  they  blow. 

And  the  taste  of  the  nectar  that  from  them  drips 
I only  know.” 

But  the  maid,  as  she  walked  in  the  moonlight  mist, 

Lifted  her  face,  and  was  lovingly  kissed. 

He  sang  of  her  voice,  “ It  is  soft  and  clear 
As  the  voice  of  a gentle  dove. 

So  tender,  that  I alone  can  hear 
Her  words  of  love.” 

But  the  maiden  whispered  to  one  by  the  sea, 

“ I love  thee,  darling,  and  only  thee.” 

Ah,  poet ! finish  your  last  light  strain  : 

Ah,  maid  ! shall  we  give  you  praise,  or  blame  ? 

You  are  wringing  a heart,  with  bitter  pain, 

Yet  helping  to  laurel  a brow  with  fame. 

T 

For  out  of  the  depths  of  a master  woe, 

And  through  the  valley  of  dark  despair, 

The  soul  of  a singer  must  grope,  and  go, 

Ere  he  wear  the  purple  true  poets  wear. 


182 


SHELLS. 


ASLEEP. 

“ Come  closer,”  she  said,  “ my  sister, 

For  I can  not  see  your  face. 

The  day  grows  dim,  and  the  shadows  grim, 
Are  gathering  on  apace. 

I am  glad  that  the  night  is  coming  : 

I am  weary,  and  want  to  rest. 

What ! do  you  weep,  that  I fall  asleep 
Leaning  upon  your  breast  ? 

“ Oh,  Sister,  I am  so  tired  : 

How  tired  you  can  not  know. 

And  a jarring  pain,  in  my  weary  brain, 

Beats  like  a cruel  blow. 

I think  it  will  all  have  vanished, 

After  I sleep  awhile. 

How  sweetly  I rest,  lying  here  on  your  breast. 
In  the  warmth  of  your  loving  smile. 

“ Such  a beautiful  dream,  my  sister, 

I dreamed  while  I slept  last  night. 

I thought  he  was  true  : and  he  came  with  you, 
And  kissed  me  in  love’s  delight. 

And  he  said But  I am  so  weary, 

I will  sleep  ere  I tell  the  rest.” 

But  the  sister  wept,  for  the  maiden  slept 
In  the  sleep  of  death,  on  her  breast. 


1869. 


SHELLS . 


183 


TWO  COUNTS. 

If  I count  my  life  by  the  ticking  of  clocks, 

In  the  old  methodical  way, 

If  I count  by  the  years,  and  the  years’  twelve  blocks, 
If  I figure  it  out  by  the  ceaseless  flocks 
Of  hours  that  make  a day, 

If  I count  from  the  annual  calendar, 

And  trust  to  the  measured  years  in  there, 

Well,  then  I have  turned,  we’ll  say, 

But  a notch,  or  two,  on  the  wheel  of  time ; 

I am  still  in  the  flush  of  my  youths’  glad  prime ; 

My  life  is  new, 

As  the  count  will  say. 

I am  scarcelythrough 
With  the  opening  play. 

I am,  in  truth, 

In  the  flush  of  youth, 

If  I trust  to  ticking  and  striking  of  clocks, 

And  count  by  the  years,  and  the  years’  twelve  blocks. 

If  I count  my  life  by  the  beat,  throb,  beat, 

Of  the  weary  heart  in  my  breast, 

If  I count  by  the  aims  that  have  met  defeat, 

And  the  vain,  vain  search  for  rest, 

If  I count  by  tears, 

And  by  haunting  fears, 

By  hopes  that  were  all  in  vain, 


184 


SHELLS . 


By  dear  trusts  shattered, 

And  good  ships  battered, 

And  lost  on  the  treacherous  main, 

By  faith  unfounded, 

And  love  death-wounded, 

If  I reckon  it  thus,  why  then 
Counting  this  way,  I have  lived,  we’ll  say, 

Full  three-score  years,  and  ten. 

1870. 


THE  WATCHER. 

“ I think  I hear  the  sound  of  horses’  feet, 

Beating  upon  the  gravelled  avenue. 

Go  to  the  window  that  looks  on  the  street ! 

He  would  not  let  me  die,  alone,  I knew  !” 

Back  to  the  couch  the  patient  watcher  passed, 
And  said,  “ It  is  the  wailing  of  the  blast.” 

She  turned  upon  her  couch,  and  seeming,  slept, 
The  long,  dark  lashes,  shadowing  her  cheek. 
And  on,  and  on,  the  weary  moments  crept, 

When  suddenly  the  watcher  heard  her  speak , 

“ I think  I hear  the  sound  of  horses’  hoofs  !” 

And  answered,  “ ’Tis  the  rain,  upon  the  roofs.” 

Unbroken  silence  : quiet,  deep,  profound. 

The  restless  sleeper  turns.  “How  dark ! how  late 


SHELLS. 


185 


What  is  it  that  I hear — that  trampling  sound  ? 

I think  there  is  a horseman  at  the  gate  !” 

The  watcher  turns  away  her  eyes,  tear-blind. 

“ It  is  the  shutter,  beating  in  the  wind.” 

The  dread  night  passed.  The  patient  clock  ticked  on. 

The  weary  watcher  moved  not  from  her  place. 
The  gray,  dun  shadows  of  the  early  dawn, 

Caught  sudden  glory,  from  the  sleeper’s  face. 

“He  comes!  my  love!  I knew  he  would!”  she  cried, 
And,  smiling  sweetly  in  her  slumbers,  died. 

1870. 


LIFE  AND  DEATH. 

Three  days  agone,  and  she  was  here: 

Her  light  step  on  the  stair  was  springing. 
Her  sweet  voice  fell  upon  my  ear ; 

(She  mocked  the  thrushes  in  her  singing.) 
The  billows  of  her  long,  bright  hair 
Fell  round  her,  in  a golden  splendor. 

Her  face  was  young  and  fresh  and  fair ; 

Her  eyes  were  innocent  and  tender. 

Her  presence  filled  the  house  : each  room 
Breathed  of  her  pure  and  sweet  existence. 
She  was  like  some  rare  plant  in  bloom, 


186 


SHELLS. 


Its  fragrance  reaching  through  the  distance. 

Here  was  her  ribbon — there  her  book, 

Beyond,  her  wreath,  or  faded  flower. 

A step,  a voice,  a laugh,  a look, 

Told  of  her  presence,  hour  by  hour. 

How  strange  is  life  !”  I said,  “ From  naught 
God  fashioned  out  this  glowing  creature. 

Endowed  with  motion,  feeling  thought — 

Perfect  in  symmetry,  and  feature. 

Sweeter  than  any  opening  rose, 

All  grace  and  beauty  hangs  about  her. 

Though  every  flower  were  left  that  blows, 

Earth  would  be  bare  and  bleak,  without  her.” 

Three  days  agone  ! ay ! life  is  strange, 

But  death  is  stranger,  vaster,  deeper. 

It  brings  us  tears,  and  gloom,  and  change. 

She  was  God’s  sheaf,  and  Death  His  reaper. 

Three  days  ! and  now  no  voice  is  heard — 

No  light  step  on  the  stair  is  bounding. 

In  vain  the  tuneful-throated  bird 

Listens  to  hear  her  answer  sounding. 

I cannot  find  her,  anywhere  ! 

How  vast  and  strange  the  mystic  power, 

That  leaves  but  one  soft  strand  of  hair, 

()f  all  that  golden,  shining  shower, 


SHELLS. 


187 


In  door,  and  out,  in  every  place, 

I search  and  seek ; oh,  vain  endeavor  ! 

The  voice,  the  laugh,  the  form,  the  face, 

Have  vanished  from  the  earth  forever. 

A spot  of  ground,  a fresh-turned  sod, 

Hides  what  was  beautiful  and  mortal. 

Her  spirit  (fairer  still)  to  God, 

And  life  eternal,  crossed  the  portal. 

Frailer  than  any  opening  rose, 

The  winds  of  earth  blew  cold  about  her. 

Fairer  than  any  flower  that  grows, 

Heaven  was  not  complete  without  her. 

1872. 


AN  AUTUMN  REVERIE. 

Through  all  the  weary,  hot  midsummer  time, 

My  heart  has  struggled  with  its  awful  grief. 

And  I have  waited  for  these  autumn  days, 

Thinking  the  cooling  winds  would  bring  relief. 

For  I remembered  how  I lo\ed  them  once, 

When  all  my  life  was  full  of  melody. 

And  I have  looked  and  longed  for  their  return, 

Nor  thought  but  they  would  seem  the  same,  to  me. 

The  fiery  summer  burned  itself  away, 

And  from  the  hills,  the  golden  autumn  time 


188 


SHELLS . 


Looks  down  and  smiles.  The  fields  are  tinged  with 
brown — 

The  birds  are  talking  of  another  clime. 

The  forest  trees  are  dyed  in  gorgeous  hues, 

And  weary  ones  have  sought  an  earthy  tomb. 

But  still  the  pain  tugs  fiercely  at  my  heart — 

And  still  my  life  is  wrapped  in  awful  gloom. 

The  winds  I thought  would  cool  my  fevered  brow, 

Are  bleak,  and  dreary ; and  they  bear  no  balm. 

The  sounds  I thought  would  soothe  my  throbbing  brain, 
Are  grating  discords  ; and  they  can  not  calm 
This  inward  tempest.  Still  it  rages  on. 

My  soul  is  tost  upon  a troubled  sea, 

I find  no  pleasure  in  the  olden  joys — 

The  autumn  is  not  as  it  used  to  be. 

I hear  the  children  shouting  at  their  play  ! 

Their  hearts  are  happy,  and  they  know  not  pain. 

To  them  the  day  brings  sunlight,  and  no  shade. 

And  yet  I would  not  be  a child  again. 

For  surely  as  the  night  succeeds  the  day, 

So  surely  will  their  mirth  turn  into  tears. 

And  I would  not  return  to  happy  hours, 

If  I must  live  again  these  weary  years. 

I would  walk  on,  and  leave  it  all  behind  : 

will  walk  on  ; an  d when  my  feet  grow  sore, 


SHELLS . 


189 


The  boatman  waits — his  sails  are  all  unfurled — 

He  waits  to  row  me  to  a fairer  shore. 

My  tired  limbs  shall  rest  on  beds  of  down, 

My  tears  shall  all  be  wiped  by  Jesus’  hand ; 

My  soul  shall  know  the  peace  it  long  hath  sought — 

A peace  too  wonderful  to  understand. 

1868. 


TWO  LIVES. 

An  infant  lies  in  her  cradle  bed  : 

The  hands  of  sleep,  on  her  eyelids  fall. 

The  moments  pass,  with  a noiseless  tread, 

And  the  clock  on  the  mantle  counts  them  all. 
The  infant  wakes,  with  a wailing  cry, 

But  she  does  not  heed,  how  her  life  slips  by. 

A child  is  sporting,  in  careless  play  : 

She  rivals  the  birds  with  her  mellow  song  : 
The  clock,  unheeded,  ticks  away, 

And  counts  the  moments  that  drift  along. 

But  the  child  is  chasing  the  butterfly, 

And  she  does  not  heed  how  her  life  drifts  by. 


A maiden  stands  at  her  lover’s  side, 

In  the  tender  light  of  the  setting  sun. 


190 


SHELLS . 


Onward  and  onward  the  moments  glide, 

And  the  old  clock  counts  them,  one  by  one. 

But  the  maiden’s  bridal  is  drawing  nigh, 

And  she  does  not  heed  how  her  life  drifts  by. 

A song  of  her  youth  the  matron  sings, 

And  she  dreameth  a dream,  and  her  eye  is  wet. 

And  backward  and  forward  the  pendlum  swings, 
In  the  clock  that  never  has  rested  yet. 

And  the  matron  smothers  a half-drawn  sigh, 

As  she  thinks  how  her  life  is  drifting  by. 

An  old  crone  sits  in  her  easy  chair ; 

Her  head  is  dropped  on  her  aged  breast. 

The  clock  on  the  mantle  ticketh  there — 

The  clock  that  is  longing  now  for  rest. 

And  the  old  crone  smiles,  as  the  moments  fly, 

And  thinks  how  her  life  is  drifting  by. 

A shrouded  form,  in  a coffin  bed  - 

A waiting  grave,  in  the  fallow  ground  : 

The  moments  pass  with  a noiseless  tread, 

But  the  clock  on  the  mantle  makes  no  sound. 

The  lives  of  the  two  have  gone  for  ay, 

And  they  do  not  heed,  how  the  time  drifts  by. 

1869. 


SHELLS . 


191 


IN  MEM  ORIUM. 

(Miss  Jennie  Blanchard,  aye’d  21) 

Across  the  sodden  field  we  gaze, 

To  woodlands,  painted  gold  and  brown ; 
To  hills  that  hide  in  purple  haze, 

And  proudly  wear  the  autumn’s  crown. 
Oh,  lavish  autumn  ! fair,  we  know, 

And  yet  we  cannot  deem  her  so. 

The  blossoms  had  their  little  day ; 

The  grasses,  and  the  green-hung  trees. 
They  lived,  grew  old,  and  passed  away. 

And  yet,  not  satisfied  with  these, 

The  cruel  autumn  could  not  pass 
Without  this  last  fell  stroke  : alas  ! 

“ Alas,”  we  cry,  because  God’s  ways 
Seem  so  at  variance  with  our  own, 

And  grieving  through  the  nights  and  days, 
We  see  not  that  His  love  was  shown 
In  gathering  to  the  “ Harvest  Home,” 

Our  lost  one,  from  the  grief  to  come. 

Oh,  Tears  ! she  will  not  have  to  weep  ! 

Oh,  Woes  ! she  will  not  have  to  bear  ! 
For  her,  who  fell  so  soon  asleep, 


192 


SHELLS. 


No  furrowed  face,  no  whitened  hair. 

And  yet  we  would  have  given  her  these, 

In  lieu  of  heavenly  victories. 

How  weak  the  strongest  mortal  love  ! 

How  selfish  in  its  tenderness  ! 

How  God’s  angelic  host  above 

Must  wonder  at  our  blind  distress  ! 

We  see  her  still  grave,  dark  and  dim, 

And  they  see  only  Heaven  and  Him . 

Perpetual  youth  ! oh,  priceless  boon  ! 

For  ever  youthful : never  old  ! 

How  can  we  think  she  died  too  soon  ? 

What  though  life’s  story  was  half  told  ? 

Wiser  than  all  earth’s  seers,  to-day, 

Is  this  fair  soul,  that  passed  away. 

Magician,  sage,  philosopher, 

With  all  their  vast  brain- wealth  combined, 
Are  only  babes,  compared  with  her  : 

This  soul,  that  left  the  44  things  behind,” 

And,  44  reaching  to  the  things  before,” 

Gained  God,  through  Christ,  forevermore. 

October,  1870. 


SHELLS. 


193 


MY  LOVE. 

My  love  is  fair  as  the  morn  ; 

Yes,  fair  as  the  summer  morning, 

When  with  fold  on  fold  of  red,  and  gold, 

The  sun  in  the  east  gives  warning, 

And  a soft,  rare  light,  not  dim  nor  bright, 

O’er  hill  and  mountain  lingers  ; 

And  flower,  and  vine  with  jewels  shine — 

Bedecked  by  the  fairie’s  fingers. 

My  love  has  eyes  like  the  clouds, 

That  are  dyed  with  the  autumn’s  splendor, 

So  darkly  blue,  where  her  soul  looks  through — 

So  truthful  and  so  tender. 

When  their  light  is  hid  by  the  snowy  lid, 

My  heart  seems  lost  in  shadow. 

And  her  glance  will  chase  the  gloom  from  my  face, 
Like  sunlight  on  a meadow. 

My  love  has  cheeks  like  a rose — 

Yes,  like  a rose  in  blossom, 

And  a flake  of  snow  is  her  polished  brow, 

And  a drift  of  snow  is  her  bosom  ; 

And  her  hair  sweeps  down,  half  gold,  half  brown, 
Like  a silken  veil,  to  cover 
The  matchless  grace  of  her  form  and  face, 

From  the  burning  eyes  of  her  lover. 

13 


194 


SHELLS, 


My  love  has  a voice  like  a thrush — 

Yes,  like  a thrush  when  singing. 

And  the  wondering  lark  cries,  “ Listen  ! hark  !” 

When  he  hears  her  glad  tone  ringing. 

Oh  she  is  fair,  beyond  compare  ; 

And  how  her  sweet  face  flushes, 

When  I whisper  low  a tale  we  know — 

And  the  rose  is  shamed  by  her  blushes. 

1871. 


THE  FROST  FAIRY. 

All  day  the  trees  were  moaning, 

For  the  leaves  that  they  had  lost. 

All  day  they  creaked,  and  trembled, 

And  the  naked  branches  tossed, 

And  shivered  in  the  north  wind, 

As  he  hurried  up  and  down, 

Over  hill  tops,  bleak  and  cheerless, 

Over  meadows,  bare,  and  brown. 

“Oh,  my  green  and  tender  leaflets  ! 

Oh,  my  fair  buds,  lost,  and  gone  !” 

So  they  moaned  through  all  the  day-time, 
So  they  groaned,  till  night  came  on. 

And  the  hoar-frost  lurked,  and  listened, 
To  the  wailing,  sad  refrain. 


SHELLS. 


195 


And  he  whispered,  “ Wait,  be  patient ; 

I will  cover  you  again. 

“ I will  clothe  you  in  new  garments  : 

I will  deck  you,  ere  the  light, 

In  a sheen  of  spotless  glory, 

In  a robe  of  purest  white. 

You  shall  wear  the  matchless  mantle 
That  the  good  frost-fairy  weaves.” 

And  the  bare  trees  listened,  wondered — 
And  forgot  their  fallen  leaves. 

And  the  quaint  and  silent  fairy, 

Backward,  forward,  through  the  gloom, 
Wove  the  matchless,  glittering  mantle  ; 

Spun  the  frost-thread,  on  her  loom. 
And  the  bare  trees  talked  together — 
Talked  in  whispers,  soft,  and  low, 
While  the  good  and  patient  fairy 
Moved  her  shuttle  to  and  fro. 

And,  lo  ! when  the  sudden  glory 
Of  the  morning  crept  abroad, 

All  the  trees  were  clothed  in  grandeur ; 

All  the  twiglets  robed  and  shod 
In  the  glittering,  spotless  garments,  . 

That  the  sunshine  decked  with  gems  ; 
And  the  trees  forgot  their  sorrow, 

Neath  their  robes  and  diadems. 


1870. 


196 


SHELLS. 


THE  SUMMONS. 

1 think  the  leaf  would  sooner 
Be  the  first  to  break  away. 

Than  to  hang  alone  in  the  orchard 
In  the  bleak  November  day. 

And  I think  the  fate  of  the  flower 
That  falls  in  the  midst  of  bloom 
Is  sweeter  than  if  it  lingered 
To  die  in  the  autumn’s  gloom. 

Some  glowing,  golden  morning 
In  the  heart  of  the  summer  time, 

As  I stand  in  the  perfect  vigor 

And  strength  of  my  youth’s  glad  prime; 
When  my  heart  is  light  and  happy, 

And  the  world  seems  bright  to  me, 

I would  like  to  drop  from  this  earth-life, 
As  a green  leaf  drops  from  the  tree.  * 

Some  day,  when  the  golden  glory 
Of  June  is  over  the  earth, 

And  the  birds  are  singing  together 
In  a wild,  mad  strain  of  mirth, 

When  the  skies  are  as  clear  and  cloudless 
As  the  skies  of  June  can  be, 

I would  like  to  have  the  summons 
Sent  down  from  God  to  me. 


SHELLS. 


197 


I would  not  wait  for  the  furrows — 

For  the  faded  eyes  and  hair; 

But  pass  out  swift  and  sudden, 

Ere  I grow  heart-sick  with  care; 

I would  break  some  morn  in  my  singing— 
Or  fall  in  my  springing  walk, 

As  a full-blown  flower  will  sometimes 
Drop,  all  a-bloom,  from  the  stalk. 

And  so,  in  my  youth’s  glad  morning, 

While  the  summer  walks  abroad, 

I would  like  to  hear  the  summons, 

That  must  come,  sometime,  from  God. 

I would  pass  from  the  earth’s  perfection 
To  the  endless  June  above; 

From  the  fullness  of  living  and  loving, 

To  the  noon  of  Immortal  Love. 

1873. 


THREE  YEARS  OLD. 


Written  upon  Eva  Orton’s  third  birthday. 


A robbin  up  in  the  linden-tree 
Merrily  sings  this  lay : 

“Somebody  sweet  is  three  years  old — 


198 


SHELLS . 


Three  years  old  to-day.” 

Somebody’s  bright  blue  eyes  look  up 
Through  tangled  curls  of  gold, 

And  two  red  lips  unclose  to  say — 

“To-day  I am  free  years  old.” 

Clouds  were  over  the  sky  this  morn, 

But  now  they  are  sailing  away; 

Clouds  could  never  obscure  the  sun 
On  somebody  sweet’s  birthday. 

Bluest  of  skies  and  greenest  of  trees, 

Sunlight  and  birds  and  flowers, 

These  are  Nature’s  birthday  gifts 
To  this  sweet  pet  of  ours. 

The  pantry  is  brimming  with  cakes  and  creams 
For  somebody’s  birthday  ball. 

Papa  and  mamma  bring  their  gifts, 

But  their  love  is  better  than  all. 

Ribbons  and  sashes,  and  dainty  robes, 

Gifts  of  silver  and  gold, 

Will  fade  and  rust  as  the  days  go  by, 

But  their  hearts  will  not  grow  cold. 

Then  laugh  in  the  sunlight,  somebody  sweet — 
Little  flower  of  June! 

You  have  nothing  to  do  with  care, 

For  life  is  in  perfect  tune. 


SHULLS. 


199 


Loving  hearts  and  sheltering  arms 
Shall  keep  old  care  away 
For  many  a year,  from  somebody  sweet, 
Who  is  three  years  old  to-day. 

Milwaukee,  June  26,  ’73. 


THE  DIFFERENCE. 

Up  in  the  cosy  chamber, 

Where,  on  the  snowy  bed 
The  dress,  and  the  pearls,  and  the  new  false  curls. 

For  the  morrow’s  use  were  spread, 

The  bride  elect  and  her  mother 
Were  sitting  before  the  grate, 

Talking  over  the  days  gone  by, 

And  planning  the  future  state. 


“I  really  am  quite  well  suited,” 
Said  Minnie,  “with  my  outfit — 
Jane  says  Kit  Somers  troussau, 

Is  nothing  compared  with  it. 
That  her  laces  are  imitation, 

And  her  bonnet  a perfect  fright, 
And  she  says  I’ll  wholly  eclipse  her 
In  everybody’s  sight. 


200 


SHELLS. 


“And  she  isn’t  to  make  the  tour, 

But  only  to  visit  awhile. 

I declare  I’d  never  be  married 
If  I couldn’t  do  it  in  style. 

Jane  says  her  jewels,  though  splendid, 
With  mine  can  never  compare: 

I tell  you  I do  love  Harry, 

When  I look  at  this  solataire. 

“And  I think  he’s  a darling,  mother, 
For  he’s  going  to  let  me  board, 

At  least  he  will,  he  says,  until 
He  finds  that  he  can  afford 

To  purchase  that  house  of  Mosleys, 
That  splendid  brown  stone  front. 

I wouldn't  have  anything  humbler, 
And  Harry  says  he  wont. 

“My  presents  are  perfectly  splendid, 
Much  finer  than  Kit’s,  I know, 

I think  that’s  half  of  a wedding 
To  have  such  things  to  show. 

If  we  get  that  house  of  Mosleys, 

What  a brilliant  life  we’ll  live. 

Such  people  as  I’ll  have  throng  it — 
Such  parties  as  I will  give. 

I mean  to  just  queeji  it  mother, 

In  society  everywhere, 


SHELLS . 


201 


And  my  title  of  belle  of  the  City 
I shall  continue  to  wear. 

I dont  believe  that  a woman 

By  marriage  should  be  tied  down 

To  wearing  a smile  for  her  husband 
And  for  all  other  men  a frown. 

“I  mean  to  dress  better  than  ever, 
And  be  just  as  merry  and  free. 

Children ! the  troublesome  wretches ! 
No  ma’m,  not  any  for  me. 

I know  I’d  be  cross  and  unhappy, 
With  children  to  tease,  and  annoy. 

A joy,  you  say,  to  be  mother, 

Well,  I will  be  spared  that  joy.” 

Across  the  hall  in  their  bedroom 
A hale  old  couple  sat, 

Minnies’  grandfather  and  mother, 
Having  a good  night  chat. 

“So  the  last  of  the  children  is  going,” 
Grandmother  said,  and  sighed, 

“Minnie,  (we  named  her  Mary,) 
To-morrow  will  be  a bride. 


“It  will  be  a great  occasion, 

All  glitter  and  glow  and  shine, 
A nineteenth  century  wedding, 


202 


SHELLS . 


Not  much  like  yours,  and  mine. 

A few  good  friends  were  with  us, 

When  we  were  married,  John, 

They  came  to  see  us  united — 

Not  to  see  what  the  bride  had  on. 

“I  wore  a snowy  muslin, 

And  a white  rose  in  my  hair, 

No  silks  nor  gems,  nor  diadems — 

And  yet  you  thought  me  fair. 

We  stood  in  the  broad  cool  kitchen, 

On  the  white  and  sanded  floor, 

And  a breeze  from  the  odorous  orchard, 
Looked  in  at  the  open  door. 


“The  minister  read  the  service 
That  made  us  one  for  life, 

And  I was  no  longer  a maiden 
But  a loved  and  cherished  wife. 

You  took  me  home  on  the  morrow! 

Six  miles,  in  a one  horse  chaise; 
Folks  didn’t  race  over  the  country 
‘Touring’  in  these  old  days. 

“Our  house  was  a tiny  cabin 

That  would  just  hold  two,  you  said, 
But  ere  a year,  you  found,  my  dear 
There  was  room  for  three,  instead. 


SHELLS. 


203 


Ah  me!  that  wonderful  baby! 

Twas  a moment  of  perfect  bliss 
When  I held  up  the  pink  faced  darling 
For  his  father’s  tender  kiss. 


“Then  came  a dear  little  daughter ! 

And  then  more  boys  and  girls 
Till  you  built  on  a wing  to  the  cabin 
To  cover  their  sunny  curls. 

There  was  never  a happier  woman 
In  all  of  the  land  I know, 

Singing  away  at  my  labor — 

Watching  the  children  grow. 

“I  had  my  beaux  and  lovers, 

When  I was  a girl ; but  when 
I became  your  bride  I put  aside 
All  thoughts  of  other  men. 

Lover,  and  king,  and  husband, 

And  friend,  I found  in  you. 

And  you  repaid  my  devotion, 

By  being  kind,  and  true. 

“Ah  well ! the  world  keeps  changing 

And  weddings  have  changed  with  the  rest, 
People  go  only  to  comment 
And  see  how  the  bride  is  drest. 

Girls  wed  houses  and  titles 


204 


SHELLS. 


Instead  of  men  as  of  old, 

And  babies  are  out  of  the  fashion 
And  all  that  glitters  is  gold. 

“Perhaps  these  times  are  better, 

Though  I cannot  think  them  so, 

But  I am  a poor  old  woman, 

And  not  supposed  to  know.” 

And  grandmother  finished  her  musings 
With  a meaning  shake  of  the  head 
Over  nineteenth  century  folly, 

And  sighed,  and  went  to  bed. 

1872 


L O VES  EXTRA  VA  GANCE. 

Could  I but  measure  my  strength,  by  my  love, 

Were  I as  strong,  as  my  heart’s  love  is  true, 

I would  pull  down  the  stars,  from  the  heavens  above, 

And  weave  them  all  into  a garland  for  you. 

And  brighter,  and  better,  your  jewels  should  be 

Than  any  proud  queen’s,  that  e’r  dwelt  o’er  the  sea. 
Ay!  richer  and  rarer,  your  gems,  love,  should  be 
Than  any  rare  jewels  that  come  from  the  sea. 

I would  gather  the  beautiful,  delicate  green 
From  the  dress  of  the  spring — with  the  heavens  soft  blue, 
And  never  from  east  land,  to  west  land  were  seen 


SHELLS. 


205 


Such  wonderful  robes,  as  I’d  fashion  for  you. 

And  I’d  snatch  the  bright  rays  of  the  sun  in  my  hand 
And  braid  you  a girdle,  love,  strand  over  strand. 

Ay!  one  by  one,  catch  the  bright  rays  in  my  hand 

And  braid  them,  and  twine  them,  all  strand  over  strand. 

I would  gather  the  amber,  the  red  and  gold  dyes, 

That  glimmer  and  glow,  in  the  autumn  sunset, 

And  weave  you  a mantle;  and  pull  from  the  skies 
The  rainbow  to  trim  it.  Ah  Love ! never  yet 

Was  any  proud  princess,  from  east  to  the  west 
So  peerlessly  jeweled — so  royally  drest. 

Never  daughter  of  princes,  in  east  land  or  west, 

So  decked  in  rare  jewels,  so  gorgeously  drest. 

And  I’d  make  you  a vail,  from  the  rare  golden  haze, 
Than  Indian  Summer  spreads  over  the  lea. 

And  trim  it  with  dew  ! Queens  should  envy  and  praise 
Your  matchless  apparel,  ah  darling,  but  see — 

My  strength  is  unequal  to  what  I would  do! 

I have  only  this  little  low  cottage,  for  you. 

Nay ! I can  not  accomplish  the  thing  I would  do, 

And  I’ve  only  this  cot  and  a warm  heart  for  you. 

1870. 


YOU  WILL  FORGET  ME. 

You  will  forget  me  the  years  are  so  tender — 

They  bind  up  the  wounds  which  we  think  are  so  deep ; 


This  dream  of  our  youth  will  fade  out  as  the  splendor 
Fades  from  the  sky,  when  the  sun  sinks  to  sleep: 

The  clouds  of  forgetfulness,  over  and  over, 

Will  banish  the  last  rosy  colors  away ; 

And  th’  fingers  of  Time  will  weave  garlands  to  cover 
The  scar  which  you  think  is  a life-mark  to-day. 

You  will  forget  me: — will  thank  me  for  saying 
The  words  which  you  think  are  so  pointed  with  pain, 

Time  loves  a new  lay;  and  the  dirge  he  is  playing 
Will  change  for  you  soon  to  a livelier  strain. 

I shall  pass  from  your  life,  I shall  pass  out  forever, 

And  the  hours  we  have  spent,  will  be  sunk  in  the  past. 

Youth  buries  its  dead:  grief  kills  seldom,  or  never, 

And  forgetfulness  covers  all  sorrows  at  last. 

You  will  forget  me;  the  one  thing  you  covet 
Now,  above  all  things  will  soon  seem  no  prize  : 

And  the  heart  which  is  not  in  your  keeping,  to  prove  it 
True  or  untrue,  will  lose  worth  in  your  eyes. 

The  one  drop  to-day,  which  you  deem  only  wanting 
To  make  life  a joy,  will  be  lost  in  Time’s  stream; 

You  will  forget;  and  the  ghost  that  is  haunting 

The  aisles  of  your  heart  will  pass  out  with  the  dream. 


if 


UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS-URBAN  A 


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